The steps of the Met just after closing time, the masses huddle unwilling to leave. I walk back along the East Side of the Park, crossing over at Woody Allen's building for old times sake, then walking up 77th. At Park, the light is golden and the Avenue is a river of taxis. I love the yellow river. Park Avenue is a ridge above the island here and catches the breezes. It is cooling after a hot day. I am tired and sad, as always, on the last afternoon in Manhattan. I've never done everything I wanted to do. Barely what I thought I would do at all. There is a hollow emptiness in the width of Park that always haunts me at this hour. Sometimes it seems like the loneliest place I've been.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Blue Hour
The steps of the Met just after closing time, the masses huddle unwilling to leave. I walk back along the East Side of the Park, crossing over at Woody Allen's building for old times sake, then walking up 77th. At Park, the light is golden and the Avenue is a river of taxis. I love the yellow river. Park Avenue is a ridge above the island here and catches the breezes. It is cooling after a hot day. I am tired and sad, as always, on the last afternoon in Manhattan. I've never done everything I wanted to do. Barely what I thought I would do at all. There is a hollow emptiness in the width of Park that always haunts me at this hour. Sometimes it seems like the loneliest place I've been.
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perfect!
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