Every night, as I throw out the garbage, I look down the street to the river and remember I live on an island.For some reason, I have trouble registering this city as a harbor, even though its frantic exchange is what always excited me most. Now, with the end of winter lingering and my mind somewhere else, I see the dark, damp streets and the pink midnight glow and imagine myself in a cinematic wharf, something like “Querelle” maybe, lingering between bars--the smell of fish heavily on the air--happy, sexual, light. A life I never had. Manhattan is so dense with fog tonight that this entire block could be at sea and we would not know it. Lately, seagulls have taken to flying around the nearby buildings, their long, black-tipped wings flapping slowly upwards and then floating leisurely over the streets. I want to soar with them in the sky. I have begun saying goodbye to my city.