I am sitting on my couch writing by the light of my beautiful funkadelic, slightly slanting Christmas tree.
It is almost 11 p.m. and snow is falling gently across Tompkins Square Park.
I love that park like it's a person.
It is quiet outside, except for the sound of taxis driving by and the sound of stray voices scattered here and there.
I feel like I've slipped inside the soul of the city.
Just for a little while.
And it's blissful.