one of the many west village blocks i fell in love with. west indian nannies pushing rosy-cheeked fair-skinned babies in strollers everywhere i turned stuck out in my mind for days following.
a beautiful, hidden courtyard that looked as if it was plucked right out of france.
there was a man standing close by with a sign that read, “tell me your story.” he had such inviting eyes among a crowd of those that seemed not to notice him. i regret not stopping to acknowledge his efforts.