New York City, July 9, 2013

★★ Fragmented and unresolvable, an entire day like a night with the air conditioner blowing and the covers falling off the bed. The early shade was cool and damp; an eastbound pedestrian reaching a patch of sun threw an arm over her eyes defensively. The sweeper truck dribbled its trail of water along the back side of Trumpville. Downtown, the air grew thicker, not really suited for breathing, but the glare was worse than the heat. The whole front of the pizza place was open, and so many people had claimed seats where indoors met outdoors that it was impossible to tell where the door or aisle had been. In the uptown 1 train track bed, the inventory of litter included a lost flip-flop, a water bottle, and a filthy furled pink umbrella. The microclimate of the West 60s was a wholly different world, with traces of yet another world: deep puddles at the curbs reflected clear sky, evidence and counter-evidence. Later, out the window in the dark, it appeared to appear to be raining again.