It’s difficult to get used to the quiet of New York City. The sound of the wind whipping down Lexington Avenue or a torn awning flapping in the breeze only heightens the sense of desolation. There is no one out, no cars, no honking. Construction sites lay empty and noiseless. The snow muffles whatever sound there might be. It feels like being underwater, the sound of being utterly alone.
Two inches of fresh snow lay upon the street and the sidewalk. It stretches, undisturbed, for miles down Lexington Avenue. The snow continues to fall and the sun has not yet risen. I stand in the middle of the desolate street. There are no people or movement other than the falling snow. In the early morning hours the city is even devoid of color, just varying shades of grey. It feels like I’m stepping into a grainy, black and white photograph. The only sound I hear are my boots shifting nervously in the snow.
I pass shops with optimistic signs in the window. Closed due to illness. Will reopen soon.
Quarantine signs are on some of the six story brick buildings, a practice that must have ended soon after it was begun. God has a plan is painted on a torn and battered sheet that hangs from a 4th floor window.
It would be nice to know what that plan is.