𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕮𝖑𝖔𝖈𝖐

My heart grew fonder of the Clock these days. Sitting in between two zoos. Non-invasive greens behind that brick wall structure, animal musicians next to their close relatives, quite a genius invention - an inspiration from medieval European town square artifacts, with a modern touch.

It also is the best and worst kind of reminder on TIME. When the last rhymes gets played at 5:30 p.m. the passage of time turns from a concept to a rather pleasant flow of notes. The musical travels past the bronze to reach the end of your nerves. The rain from last night already permeated through the soil to make that air so chilly and fresh. The wonder of physics intrigues you, the gentle floral breeze lets you forget all your sorrows. Ah, might as well the frothiness of another AI boom. By the time you wake up from a deepened sense of indulgence the clock is about to strike its last announcement.

A predictable roaming path likes to ferment random conversations. A romantic concerto rose in the background.

“It must be the little elephant performing this time.”

“I am skeptical. Rumor has it that the kangaroo and the hippo go practice their duet at the Julliards daily recitals.”

That evening they sat by the Pulitzer Fountain and watched the crowds.

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In his memoir, Allen writes that “I always wanted to shoot Manhattan in the rain, do a whole story that takes place on one rainy day.” Yet every day was sunny “when we needed gray skies and rain, and all the rain in the movie was supplied by our own rain towers and water tanks.”