I wonder what its like to live in New York on the first snowfall. I wonder how cold it is to wander streets lit with open signs and the glow of Western Union’s black and yellow hues. As you walk by someone on a street corner inhaling a cigarette, I wonder if you can feel the warmth from two pulls within those few seconds. As you stand and wait for the subway what is everyone who passes thinking and where are they going? Before they got to this city did they have dreams of nights like this? Are they on their way to some studio on the lower east side where they will use their fingers to sculpt masterpieces they hope one day will land in an exhibit. A glove lies in the midst of the stairs as you emerge from underground travels and you want to know the story. Was someone in such a hurry that they didn’t realize they dropped it, or was it a work of art in the way that it hit the ground and the snow moved from beneath it and rose like glitter? Is New York some type of magic realm where dreams come true, and as you stand on the balcony you find inspiration at the city’s very sight?