February 3, 2004
Lavender sky morning bleeding over a new born city. Like the phoenix of ancient myth the city rises everyday from the ashes of its past, shaking off the dirt and dust and pain of the day before to stand naked and glistening in anticipation of the day to come. The sun breaks over the East River, stains the glass and steel and snow of Harlem the color of blood, the color of rebirth and redemption. It is a quiet birth, or as nearly quiet as birth can be, as the city has yet to wake and cry out in hunger.