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Individual rain drops falling from the smoky, black sky tickle my skin and make my hair glisten. The air is humid and and sticks to me. I recognize the distinct whiff of pollution and classic New York hot dogs. I patiently stand at a red light, watching cars and yellow cabs whiz by. A blonde woman, most likely drunk, sticks her head and hand out of a taxi and screams, “HIGH FIVE!” I chuckle as native New Yorkers are too slow to give her one and by now, the numerous eager tourists on my side of the street are very confused. The light turns green and I am unsuccessful in my efforts to not get bumped around or pushed as I cross. The Naked Cowboy, whose name is actually Robert, has stopped strumming his guitar and is talking seriously about computer software to my father and uncle. I run to the red steps, which allow visitors to see themselves on an enormous screen in the middle of 7th Avenue. It is already pouring and my clothes are soaked. The cops at the top of the steps tell me to come back when the rain stops. I plead to stay for just a minute. It is midnight and they are too lazy to argue, so they merely nod. As everyone rushes down, I stand at the top of the steps, looking at the screen where I am the only one viewing an image of myself for all of Manhattan to see. I smile in my state of nirvana. I turn around and watch crowds of people huddle into mainstream stores. “It’s just rain and this is Times Square, “I think to myself. “Live a little.”



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