Borrowed Skies

Some days, New York feels less like a city of steel and glass than a city of light.

The clouds drift overhead, and the buildings borrow them, wearing the sky like a second skin.

It's one of those quiet transformations—an illusion that most people walk past without noticing. The skyline softens. The boundaries between us and the sky begin to blur. Glass stops feeling cold and rigid. It begins to feel like water.

Perhaps that's one of the reasons I keep looking up.

The city is constantly changing—not only because new buildings rise and old ones disappear, but because every passing cloud leaves a different New York behind.