City of Dreams or A Weekend in New York

It's big. Really big, crowded, humming with life.
At first, I am utterly overwhelmed. I've been here before, of course.
Sometimes I come here in my dreams, spinning in the mosaic of people, having found my place in life.

This time, I am hustled out of the car, onto the streets. It's winter, but in this city winter means fashionable coats, not cold. The warmth of humanity wraps itself around me.
Breathing in famously thick air. Sluggish.
Looking upwards, I have to work to find the sky. But it is beautiful.

This city never sleeps, but I do. Somewhere in the rush of the Square, the thousands of people, I doze off. Then, I dream.
I dream of the pavements where my boots make solid sounds and the high heels of business women hurry to work.

 I dream of the smells that permeate the air, the hot rush or white steam seeping from the subway vents. I dream of the people-in red. in black. in burnt yellow ochre, each with their own purpose. My purpose here is not to have one.

I dream of the lights which blind me, the buildings which dwarf me, the shops which tantalize me, the shows which stun me, the men and women who impress me or frighten me, the streets which excite me, the cabs which honk at me, and the city.

The city which causes me to dream.