I dreamt there was a band inside me, one player bowed a bass larger than herself, another blew a brass horn on loan from an angel, a third played flute – pursing her lips, kissing each note goodbye, lingering over some like a lover – while children followed her tunes, her blooms, lifted off the ground by the music inside her magic.

You cannot consider yourself a New Yorker unless you have traveled the Seventh Avenue subway, unless you know what it’s like to stand so close to others you can hear people popping gum inside their mouths, unless you know how to grab the straps without losing your balance, without breathing, until the next stop.

It all begins with an idea.