looking west to the fading light, oil painting brushstrokes, colors that defied name, orange-reds, yellow-oranges, changing each second it seemed, the cold wind stinging your eyes as you looked out at Governors Island, to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, the Staten Island Ferry, seagulls flying below you, under the bridge, causing you to turn and stare in wonder at the giant ragged teeth of the buildings all the way up the island, Chrysler and Empire and ten thousand more. To feel even a small part of this place.
