It was apparent when I first moved here that the sky was different.
The sky here is open, clear at night, peaceful as though it were a parent listening to the tittering of its countless children below–an amused smile escaping from its cloud face.
New York’s sky was closed–the supertall buildings stretching up like stiff serpentine tentacles, threatening to yank down those who dared look beyond them to catch a glimpse of that smile that was waiting for them, who dared seek an embrace from their heavenly parent. The city sky at night, rather than clear, was a mirror to the activity below: it seemed that all the turmoil of the streets and rooms and offices could not, like energy, be dispersed, but rather was trapped within the zoo-bars those same supertall buildings constituted, creating a cage. Bridges and tunnels were sentries: guarding the entrances and, more importantly, the exits.
The sky here is different.
Biscuit Aisle 