At the cafe, a man sits too close to me; I find an excuse to move away into the sun, stretching my legs on a concrete block, leaning my head back, closing my eyes.  Here, they take their time with their coffees, their heavy breakfast of sandwiches with meat and cheese, mayonnaise or mustard spread.  In America everything is eaten on the go, in a hurry to be somewhere else, in the car, driving from place to place.

The street awakens, a few people peeking out, strolling, no hurry to get from here to wherever it is they are going.  In New York, walking fast fast pushing people out of the way, jumping lights at the crosswalks, taxis honking.  No one lazes a morning away.  Still so many are buried, eyes down in their phones, missing it all.