There’s a writer here who likes to stare out the window. The window looks north toward the Empire State Building. Between it and us are apartment buildings and people walking on Broadway and rooftop parties and streams of yellow cabs and above it the bright blue sky seeming absolutely clear of smog. She gets up every so often and stands at the large corner window. Perfectly still she stands, with nothing in her hands, for many minutes. What does she see out the window that keeps calling her back? She’ll stare for a while, then return to her desk. The sound of typing starts up immediately after, furious. I walked by just now and saw her typing madly. What is she writing? I have a feeling, just a feeling, that she’s writing a wonderful novel. One day I will read it, and in it will be a view of the city I might recognize—the rooftop party, the red-brick and yellow-brick buildings below us, the place where Broadway curves and disappears, the Empire State in the cloudless periwinkle blue sky.