The public library between 5th and 6th Avenue next to Bryant Park in Midtown is an oasis, and for me, legendary. It looms large in my memory from the early days of my stay in the City and was a place I could go where it was quiet and the light came in the through the beautiful windows softly onto the wooden desks. The books could only be consulted not borrowed but just being around them was enough. More than enough when I had no place special to be in the daytime and was still trying to answer the question of what I was doing in the City. I would type at my laptop trying to distill my ideas into something coherent and throw sidelong glances at the people on other chairs, wondering what it was they were doing there. Occasionally, if I saw what was a student deep into their study of a specific field I'd envy them a little - for their well-defined purpose. The main room itself civilized my moods - despair, depression, anxiety, excitement - within its air-conditioned walls. Until which time I felt fortified enough to face the outside world. On a nearby street the sidewalk is paved with the words of writers. A brass plate for the great names of literature. Ginsberg, Shakespeare, Proust, Dickinson...And mostly they serve only to cushion the footsteps of oblivious passersby. Occasionally I'll stop and read one, trying not to block the unrelenting flow of traffic, which is impossible.