I don't know, maybe it's all the grey. Sky, clouds, street, roads, buildings, people, noise. The continual, connected, immutable always-ness of the city. Always on, always lit up or tore down or on show, for something, the ever unquiet world of New York. Maybe it's that my apartment is like a lovely prison--perfect, warm, oppressive-- or that on the rare and lazy thin winter Sunday when the sun does come out, there's no place to go that doesn't exchange currency for space, no unlit, open, uncomplicated place. Maybe it's that every time you walk out the door, there is noise. Somewhere, right there, every time, always. The expressway, the tunnel, the tracks, the passes. A horn on Clinton Street, a truck breaking, a car, a bus, a train, a siren. There is, nowhere around me, the open-endedness of space, an uninterrupted sky or ocean or water. There is, all and only around me, a claustrophobia of stuff.
