Friday night I fell asleep on the uptown bus after Christina's roof party, drunk and sated from salty sweet McDonald's hamburgers, and I awoke at 120th Street and Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard. The walk back down was strangely delightful. Adam Clayton Boulevard, a tree-lined corridor bisecting the top of Central Park, was a dream of old New York, of New York in 1925 or something. The beautiful old buildings seemed more intact than I'd expected, preserved somehow, not by renovation but by some invisible benign envelope. The walls were bathed in yellow glow. There was street life here and there, people on stoops or gathered in groups on the sidewalk. Looking down, the street disappeared into the blackness of the park aglitter with lamplight. I took a left onto 110th Street. I passed a blue awning that said DENTIST'S OFFICE and a plaque beside the door that said DENTIST'S OFFICE too.