It was one of those nights, rare and premature in its warmth and, subsequently, its beauty. The intense cold had made New York City disappear for months on end – its inhabitants downcast and turned in, voices muffled by falling snow and wool scarves likely in need of washing. It was warm enough that you felt inspired to look around, up at billboards of giant women wearing tight jeans or giant bottles of tequila. Things you had missed while watching for black ice since November. I looked into apartment windows, the shadows and light inside someone else’s universe. Voices jumped, buoyant and free, off of narrow streets of brick and mortar, cobblestone and taxicabs. These were the nights you lived for – the one out of two hundred. A pure, unadulterated blissful expanse of time. Unshackled New York.