You may find the lights of this postcard city excessive, every window lit, suffused with gold light. You may wonder what the inner walls must be made of, to reflect such light. I have heard that the sight gives the inhabitants faith that tenements can be transformed into gilded penthouses. They see lightning touching a skyscraper spire as the extended finger of a god.
Some say the city never sleeps, and I believe this. The windows never shutter their lights, though they may wink at you if you stare long enough. This could be a red-tailed hawk returning to its nest on a twelfth-story ledge. This could be a host carrying a cocktail from room to room to a guest. Though this brief loss of light is probably only the building winking.
The city of Skyscrapers preens before a mirror of Hudson River. It catches and loses, catches and loses, the river’s attention. The city loves the river — but not the river. It loves what it sees of itself in the river. If the city could embrace itself, if it could reach down and stroke itself, it would. The city in the postcard longs for itself.
