The car fills with babble as the rocking starts, with three conversations going on all at once. You can't join them, because all of them aren't open to joining, and if you follow one, you'll miss out on the others. Topics bounce like rubber on tile, things like snow, bread trucks, middle school, weather, traveling puppies, the beach, inches, music and Italy, just to name a few.

Cars growl and brakes hiss outside the protective shields of the traveling bubble. Snow twirls outside in a swirling dance of dust and dirt, while yellow elves cut off other tricksters. Everything shakes and turns and twists as the smoke seeps into the car, but no one gives a damn or takes any notice. They all appreciate the silence between them or they're singing or laughing or talking again because the silence is uncomfortable now.

Stomachs churn and teeth rattle while taking in the tough, majestic chill of the city. The virgins look in awe or distract themselves, and those who've penetrated the walls of the city already do other things. The same things, really, it's always the same things.

Capes and coats swish in the bitter air, children clutch the hands of their elders, and snow falls harder now. Everything is beautiful and sickening and magical and dirty all at once.

It's New York. And it's home.