I am in a love and hate relationship with this city. New York gets beautiful sunsets that nobody sees or knows about. Residents ask themselves daily why they inhabit this burly brimming ship and find solace in watching the flickering tourists from Baton Rouge—who would have loved to dress, walk, and spend like splendid New Yorkers. But I love Manhattan because it’s an island that least resembles an island, and because it was traded for goods equaling a meager 24 dollars—about the price of a modest entrée in a tiny Greenwich gourmet.

Here I am, turning in my office chair, in another 9×5x5 day, working for a good cause that amounts to a day spent in front of the computer. Being raised in plenty, my ambitions are not those of my parents. Everyday I seek a meaning to life. Being married takes the edge off the quest, for if I have no anwers at the end of the day, at least my purpose is to be home.