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A pair of boxers has been hanging in this tree for three days. 

I picked it up, the first time I've ever touched one of these things, walked to the corner, and threw the contraption in the Big Belly Solar trash bin before someone else could recover or repair it.

This seamstress is ubiquitous. She's a Pretty White Lady, blonde or brunette, smiling graciously as she stitches dutifully. Usually her act is depicted within a sticker, made of vinyl, adhered neatly to the front window.

I was waiting for the J/Z to take me to Essex Street. She'd been standing on the opposite side of the tracks, looking in the deeper into Brooklyn direction, arms folded across her ribs.

The sidewalk across from the Trump SoHo, on Spring St., offered its opinion on the Donald.

Two men took interest in my act of taking a photo of the ground.

"Is that new?" one asked.

It didn't look new, I said, judging by signs of wear in the words. The other man agreed.

I don't know what this is selling me, but I can't resist giving it my attention. 

PAMPERING THE GROWTH OF TODAY'S YOUTH...

Perched on a ring, close to a Krown.

An open window, a lack of drapes or blinds in the windows, usually indicates that the people living in the space viewed through the windows are new to it. It says their things are yet unpacked, their priority is not privacy.

Gonzo, ever the weird one, still talks on his phone.