Woh. New York, timeless and of time. Falling out of the bus I am met by hard lines travelling upwards, my neck craned backwards like a cock crowing. My eyes leave the sidewalk, again I watch yellow taxis pumping their fastness, steam from an extractor tube swipes the traffic lights out of sight momentarily, and the street is frozen in an image of perfect disaster and automaton.
The bookshop is closed, it is Easter Sunday, but chocolate cake is moist and runs down my tongue in the padded booth of the nearby diner. It is two days later. I sit silent with Chall, not eating, suspended before the front glass of the window, passersby craning back now and then, to meet our staring.
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