Large Apple.

Raw and gray here in 10019. Low sky. Strange orange hue underneath as we ride towards an early, eastern dusk. I have not brought enough warm clothes. A $5 pair of gloves is in my future. As is some kind of toasty hole-in-the-wall drink on 10th Ave in Hell's Kitchen.

So, the cabbie said. What are you here for? Business, I said. We rode like that for a while. What kind of business, he said, eventually. I told him. Oh, he said. You write books? You're a writer? I guess so, I said. I wrote one. I don't know. We rode a little more. What are your passions? he wanted to know. Passions? I said. Yeah, he said. Passions. I like writing, I said. No, he said. I mean like cars. Like cars and sports. Oh, I said. I like those things, too. Then we talked about Shelby Mustangs for a while.