This morning the melting snow seemed unnatural, as if someone had dumped loads of dirty cotton onto the streets of Washington Heights.
But the texture was coarse and granular, like rough sand.
I passed a few mattresses and shuddered as I considered the epidemic of bedbugs that has struck the city.
More pleasing to contemplate was the sidewalk, which glistened in the sun.
The irregular contours of the snow reminded me of the banks of a river winding through the landscape.
In midtown I passed a tower of palettes, which reminded me of nothing but palettes. Business was apparently continuing in the new month.
But as I often do, I noted the reflection of the sun against one of my favorite buildings on 35th Street, where I one day hope to live in a 10,000 square foot loft apartment (with a roof deck). (Let it be said that I view the chances of this happening as only slightly better than hitting the lottery.)
I didn't feel unhappy though; the morning was beautiful and the air was warm, so that spring seemed imminent. At lunch I went to the gym for the first time in several weeks, since recovering from my cold, and managed to run a few miles. Time passed and I returned home to a sunset that seemed to expand the sky in ways that I had forgotten possible over the winter months.
For the second time, I admired a river of light winding through the city.
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