A murky blanket encompasses the sky as the sun tries to illuminate the scene below, lend some clarity.  It doesn’t have much success, only a few rays permeate the atmosphere.  They afford a bleak view of homes they shroud, residing in the less exciting side of New York —not the image that comes to mind.  It’s quieter and has less bustle, but that’s what most of New York really is.  You stare out of the window, but at first you can’t see past the glass.  All you see is the grime accumulated from what you hope is flying debris, but you don’t really want to know either way.  But then your eyes shift focus and now you’re watching your world fly by the way you would watch a filmstrip play. You get a sense of the community, of the nothing-too-promising-but-you-can’t-complain, of content.  But you get it one moment at a time.  The train you’re on gives you only fleeting glimpses of every facet of its path, but that’s enough. It’s enough to contemplate each vision individually, but still absorb the inescapable sense of New York as a whole.