Dear Diary:
New York City is best at keeping secrets.
The snow was diving to its filthy grave along the sidewalk of West 25th Street when I saw a man eating a gallon of strawberry ice cream with a fork.
I barely blinked, but when I turned around he was gone: an ephemeral vision, like the icy debris that melts into the steam grates.
It’s almost as if he was never really there at all. Instead, he was archived to the depths of the city’s veins.
And that’s when I realized New York is merely a witness to the madness.
A dedicated guardian to the characters in which it’s composed, a keeper of our stories, memories and secrets, and though often we are fleeting, New York will always be there with the unspoken promise of silence and permanence.
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