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There’s nothing in this courtyard, after all, that wasn’t here in 1977; maybe it’s not this year but that one, and everything that follows is still to come … For if the evidence points to anything, it’s that there is no one unitary City. Or if there is, it’s the sum of thousands of variations, all jockeying for the same spot. This may be wishful thinking; still, I can’t help imagining that the points of contact between this place and my own lost city healed incompletely, left the scars I’m feeling for when I send my head up the fire escapes and toward the blue square of freedom beyond. And you out there: Aren’t you somehow right here with me? I mean, who doesn’t still dream of a world other than this one? Who among us–if it means letting go of the insanity, the mystery, the totally useless beauty of the million once-possible New Yorks–is ready even now to give up hope?
