What's harder, remembering your dreams in the morning or the day's events at night?

The bank buildings on Sixth Ave. loomed high above the subway exit, uniform and bright, appearing to vibrate very slightly in the sun.

On Broadway there lay a pigeon fetus in the crosswalk, by the curb at 53rd, pale-pink, waxy, assailed by a thousand tiny ants.

Chris had a baby doll's head stuck on a broken drumstick. He declared they would take it to the top of the Empire State Building later, take a picture. In the middle of the afternoon I received it on my phone, the head on the stick staring past the camera with its eerie little smile, behind it all of Downtown Manhattan.