I came to New York with nothing but a camera.

I grew up here. I’m here now so when I disappear for another 10 years I will have all the little pieces to remember them by.

But it’s been so long that I don’t even know the place anymore. It’s not a part of me. The ghost hand, the grafted soul. Time and the 9-5 have wiped most of it away.

It’s Thursday. I’m standing in midtown after morning rush hour and it’s 20 degrees colder than I’d like. More than just the January wind because, after all, everyone laughs and says I’m just in time for the fantastic weather.

The streets are no less crowded than I remember. I notice their crooked noses, their razor-sharp suits, the lines in their faces that says they’re late for a meeting. The iPhones, the distracted air, the shiny shoes, the lack of color. See the whites of their eyes a second before you knock shoulders.

The city vibrates. From desperate sidewalk salesmen to the mid-morning drugstore run, a taxi jam, the thunder of delivery trucks. Or maybe it’s the gigantic rotating pillar that keeps Manhattan afloat. Everyone has a purpose, everyone is headed somewhere.

Except me. It marks me a stranger as keenly as the red sash around my neck.

I try to catch what I see in my hands, but they’re too quick. I’m 20 years too late on the corner and fumbling to chase them with my little metal box. Wait! Wait, you’re pretty! I don’t say that out loud (that’s weird), but I watch with my two glass eyes, thinking they won’t notice me.