I awoke groggily this morning, trying to remember dreams. The name Rohan came into my head, Rohan, the sullen Indian who hung out at Richter's like Keith, Rohan who played foosball better than anyone I've ever seen; better than Keith, and Keith is pretty good. I remembered nervously tending goal as Rohan drew his toy forwards back and forth, teasing the ball, until he felt the moment was right and in less than an instant the ball was deep in the gullet of the goal with a humiliating thunk. They're repaving Madison Avenue. Men are perched in strange heavy equipment, awaiting their turn to scrape or surface or steamroll. The traffic has to go around. Peter, our CEO, seemed oddly unfazed by the unfolding events. He'd wander out of his office, glance at the TV. He said something about how people could stay in a hotel if they couldn't make it home to Jersey or wherever. He'd wander back to his office, hands clasped behind his back. Brian and Daniela and I decided to walk home at about noon. Outside, the streets and sidewalks were completely overrun by people walking north. The analogy is tired but completely true: the only time you ever see something like this, your environment transformed like this, is in movies. It was as though 10,000 extras had been hired to swarm around the Flatiron Building and up Fifth Avenue for some disaster epic. Places everyone. They'll never let us close these streets again so let's get this right. Action!