The city’s history lies no deeper than the litter blowing down its sidewalks into forgotten corners of alleys, against curbs, into doorways. No deeper than yesterday’s concrete. Memories get torn down, repaved, replaced, by newer better ones.
Layer after layer, think: Do skyscraper stories each tell a new story? Does each elevator floor down from the collective roof of the city bring us closer to the past?
No, Zed, no. It doesn’t work that way. You should know that by now. The foundation and the glass it supports are part of the same building. They share the same address.
We don’t need to get closer. We’re already there. A Proustian nod, "The only true voyage of discovery is not to go to new places, but to have other eyes."
Lower Manhattan. They’ve taken away the crumbled stone, the twisted metal, the lives. And they’re building new shadows - a different shape, but the same shade.
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