A sea of NYPD caps fills the sidewalk while mannequins look on from the shop window.
Across the dark water, the towers glow. The city may never sleep, but there are spaces where it breathes.DUDE, scrawled on the railing, and the skyline across the river doesn't argue.
A motorcycle escort rolls up the wet avenue as an officer steps into the frame.
Hundreds of windows, each one a life we will never see. If we could see into each other's windows, we'd realize that we are more alike than we are different.A man in a cowboy hat and a fur-collared coat grins for the camera beside the winter rink.
The bridge disappears into the fog halfway across the water.
A path runs off into the fog beside a graffitied sign and the ghost of a bridge.BAR, in red neon, wrapped in holiday lights.
Revolving doors glow electric blue in an empty lobby.
Icicle lights and potted evergreens frame the windows of a warm bar.A puddle holds the bare trees upside down, yellow leaves floating on the sky.
Through the glass, a man waits his turn on the bench, phone in hand.
Two girls hang on the rail of the rink, chins on their arms, watching the skaters go round.A lit carousel turns inside its glass pavilion on the waterfront, the bridge and dark towers beyond.
Shadows drift under umbrellas through the steam and the red glow of the street.
In the rain, a man walks his dogs past the shuttered hardware store.A tower catches the last warm light against a clean blue sky.
A narrow brick passage ends at a red door.
Hard hats bent to the trench, a crew digs out the sidewalk.Officers gather by the dozen on the corner, caps and jackets as far down the block as the eye can see.
Batman counts his tips on the plaza, the Joker lurking just behind.
A red disc hangs against a red wall, a single lamp above it.A work platform dangles from the side of a tower still rising in glass.
A tree's shadow spreads across the stone like a crack in the wall.
Flags of the member nations line the lawn at the United Nations.Ferries churn the East River beneath the Brooklyn Bridge.
From Brooklyn, the Manhattan skyline burns down to silhouette at sunset.
Billboards, taxis and passersby dissolve into one another in a Manhattan window.Two men in racing suits cross-country ski over the crosswalk, no snow required.
Alone beneath a stone bridge in Central Park, a man paints the air with the warm tones of his saxophone.
The word DIRTY burns pink in neon, doubled in the glass of the door.Someone chalked a heart on the pillar, and the city walks right by.
A woman shouts over a sign in Farsi as Iranian flags crowd the barricade. Beside her, a placard in English reads No to Rouhani.
A line of light slashes across falling water in the dark.She was a midnight vixen, born from shadows, a shapeshifter, drifting through neon lights.
Two trains meet inside the iron ribs of the Williamsburg Bridge. Somewhere above the East River, Brooklyn and Manhattan trade passengers.
Light cuts a diagonal through a cloud of spray in the dark.A grown-up game of leapfrog, one man sailing clean over another on the lawn.
Grand Central's great windows pour light down onto the crowd along the balcony.
A model in a flowing gown holds her pose in the crosswalk while the photographer drops to one knee.A stairwell's steel ribs and a scrawl of graffiti, in black and white.
A No Standing Anytime sign lies flat on the ground, obeying itself.
A cyclist checks his phone on the platform beside the old token booth.Times Square's billboards stack toward the sun, an altar to opulence.
Glass panels fold and tilt across a facade, all angles and grids.
Giant ducts and fans cling to the face of a building, seen straight up from the sidewalk.A tower's crown rises from a slope of steel and glass.
A neon arrow points the way to the barber.
Snow softens Pell Street in Chinatown, where the red signs are the brightest thing for blocks.Tulips and daffodils crowd a window box behind the bars.
At 34th Street, a mosaic spins in blue and gold across the station wall.
Straight up between the walls, the Chrysler spire pierces a white sky.Rings of light spiral down into a glowing tunnel.
Fists and placards rise over yellow vests reading Iranians: Regime Change Now, the old lion-and-sun flag above them.
A woman plays the green piano in Bryant Park while the lunch crowd listens from the tables.A facade of glass ripples like a curtain in the wind.
Steel beams and glass panes race toward a single point downtown.
One World Trade rises through the bare branches, in black and white.Between brick walls, a cherry tree blooms over a courtyard of trash bags.
Curved girders branch overhead like steel trees.
A saxophonist plays in the shadow of the stone arch, his case open at his feet.A tower of glass boxes stacked askew, like a game of Jenga paused mid-turn.
Across the river, a single tower twists up into the dusk.
A lone walker passes beneath scaffolding strung with holiday lights, the snow gone to slush.A star cast in the iron of a manhole cover.
A crescent moon hangs over the rooftops as the last orange light fades.
She stands at the curb in a wide-brimmed hat, the steam rising behind her.A glass tower vanishes into the fog halfway up.
Bare branches reflected in a rippled puddle.
Straight up, a tower's glass panels slice into the sky.Steam rises from the street and swallows the umbrellas, and a man in a hat walks straight into it.
Paint drips over paint in black, yellow and pink.
Glass shingles step up the side of a building, catching the clouds.The Chrysler Building crowns the canyon of towers, taxis streaming along below.
Panes of glass fold and buckle across an undulating facade.
In black and white, a figure under an umbrella waits in the rising steam.A pipe bends across a wall of cracked and peeling plaster.
A gutted building stands open to the sky, floors exposed like a dollhouse.
A wall of scrawled hearts, one of them red, above an empty sidewalk.Old pier pilings rise from the Hudson like a forest of stumps as the sun goes down.
An empty subway platform stretches off into the dark.
