Downtown Manhattan II
 

Like flags scratched into the sky - the exhaust fumes of cars. Of barges on the Hudson, or steamers coming in, bringing songs and goods and people from afar. A towering city, this is what it is. And a city embraced by two rivers, by the ocean, the blue endless fluid that seeps into the eyes, that pervades and transforms the city. A city with a tall sky. A city with waves gnawing at the feet of the towers, the feet of people. There, they are. Perhaps on a ferry boat. Or is it a bridge, a bridge linking a vast island to a smaller one?
In the background, the skyline. Part of it. Part of Manhattan. As if Christo had been partially wrapping the skyscrapers, clouds of dust, clouds of pinkish whitish violetish color hide the lower parts of the buildings. Yes, it must be dust, rising. Rising and rising. From the site of distress, the site of anguish and thousandfold death. The people go about their business. Off to work, or returning from work - who knows?
The silhouette of the skyscrapers, their upper sections, how clearly they protrude, into the smoke-scratched sky! How cool the colors appear to me. Was there something called cool jazz, once? Its clear sound tearing painful wounds into the big city space?
 
 

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