It smells like clam chowder in the office.  Like hot low tide.  And it’s making me hungry as I open the mail, hi-lite the names, and stamp the date.

Open, hi-lite, stamp, set aside, repeat.  And endless supply of mail, of college hopefuls sending applications and essays explaining every last detail of how curious they are about the world, how wrong injustice is, and how full of wonder the streets of New York City are.

They can’t wait to get here and dissect the vascular streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn, block by block.