Lost, but not in translation.

I am no stranger to four in the morning. Even four in the morning in a strange city seems like a friend, one I haven't seen in a few years, but still welcoming, still open arms and gay laughter. Walking through New York in the shivering hours before dawn -- it seems natural, somehow, the way Seattle has been said to look most proper when seen through a curtain of rain.

It's later than that now, and the other chickies are sleeping sound in their nest as I patter away at the keyboard, not so much sleepless as clinging to the last remnants of the day, excited and exhausted in equal terms. I'm a little fearful of seeing this city in the harsh light of morning, afraid that some of the magic will be lost when I can see the perpetual squalor more clearly.

But I've got to sleep sometime, and I don't want to wake so late in the day as to lose my chance to see the museums and parks and cathedrals; the things that sleep when the sun does.

I think I like New York; so far the Big Apple has been kind. But I can hear the sirens and smell the sewers, and will be nonetheless happy to return home. Four days is a good start.

Good night, ducks and dollies. Dream deeply until you wake.