As the cityscape expanded, it also shrank. It came to feel as if the whole population lived together in one big house. Bricks, wallpaper, matted fur, insulation, granite, saliva, glue, venetian blinds, mud, twigs, vinyl siding, steel beams—they overlapped and merged. Architecture and infrastructure blurred into continuous surface. This great combine creased and flipped, so that private was public, and public concealed itself in plain view. Looking out might as well be looking in, as building walls made streets into halls. Foyers led to front doors, led to bedrooms with views of—if one was lucky—the Hudson River or the Kosciuszko Bridge.

In summer, sun pounded the sidewalks and the heat intensified the smell of everything. Citizens put plants into pots and put these pots on their sills. Youths leapt into turquoise pools that sat in the middle of emerald parks. Air conditioners hummed dangerously overhead. The city was like a pizza oven, and the inhabitants were greasy little toppings. These toppings felt weak or furious. Vendors sold chili mango and ices. Smoke and steam billowed up to join the clouds. The clouds grew tense. Rain fell heavy. The storm cleared up. Everyone felt happy, but then the heat would return, bringing with it fury and fatigue.

In late summer, places closed for vacation. Those who could, fled. Then September would come, school would start, and everything would be open and packed once again.

Fall was the most beautiful.

Then came winter. The first snow was nice, but every subsequent just coated the frozen street filth. The mélange melted and refroze and the city would be miserable for months.

Winter lasted half a year or more before the winds blew in spring, when every tree exploded with pollen and flowers. Gingko and linden released their funky cream perfumes. The island went mad with joy and allergies.

The streets stank. Storefronts emitted puffs of salon chemicals and cooking grease, dung and bleach, fungus and air freshener. When crowds on the train pressed together they released whiffs of cocoa butter and Chanel.

Trash piled up. Workers took it away. There was so much stuff that even nice things cycled into the trash. Whoever got tired of their shoes just left them on the stoop. Someone else would put them on. Creatures threw out whole bedroom sets and decent abstract paintings. Socks, umbrellas, books, and incense could be bought on any street corner.

The crush, the wealth, the waste of wealth, all the tight quarters and inward-facing windows, made residents obsess over their bodies, their fur and feathers. They ignored seasonal dress and followed instead the gulf streams of fashion. Tatters in winter and suits for summer. Horn rims and corno portafortunas, buffalo plaids and leopard prints, socks and sandals—it all came and went, then returned later, reimagined. Everything was beautiful artifice.