Even though it is a Saturday, the streets are largely empty, as are many bar stools lining the ground floor interiors of Clark Street. Signs in ticket broker windows state the obvious for the oblivious. Along some blocks, there is more plywood than glass in storefront windows. Restaurants offering cheap eats are the cockroaches of the small business world, but even some of their shells have been crushed under the boot that applies pressure as it grinds (or is incinerated by a can of Right Guard and a match, as once happened back in the Summer of 1980 on 23rd Street).

I thought about stopping at Sunnyside for some gummy bears, but I am not sure I want to go there. For the few who were in line, dulling the senses on another empty Saturday night might make sense, but I still like wandering around in an unmediated world. Maybe someday; I wonder what my images would look like. Stupid? Blurred? Telescoped?

Henry Gruaert, Saul Leiter, and René Burri—you are always on my mind.

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