Also...from ages ago:

At 2 AM I leave the library. Finding it to be a gorgeous night (morning?) I walk up Broadway to 86th street in complete silence, staring down vacant streets, watching the intermittent flash of yellow as taxis occasionally pass me, seeing perhaps three people in 30 city blocks. It’s a truly bizarre experience, this walking through Manhattan at night, finding the “city that never sleeps” very much in a state that resembles just t hat. I used to think that it was impossible to be lonely in New York because of the people, the bustle, the neon… but now it is 2 AM and I’ve decided that this may very well be the loneliest place in the world. Because somehow urban desolation—the storefronts with metal encasings that resemble muzzles, the unlit brownstones, the empty ghosts of cabs that follow one after another down otherwise un-traveled avenues—is so much more profound than it is in places that are less populated.
And walking down Broadway in the wee hours of the morning, one cannot help but feel t hat they are the last surviving person in a world that has abruptly stopped spinning on its axis.
By 2:45 I am at my car in Riverdale and by 3:06 I am back at the house that used to be my home but is decidedly no longer. There are no street lights in suburbia, and so my block is completely dark and desolate as I drive down the street, until I reach the house that is directly across from my own. The man who lives there is preparing to move across the country to Arizona to take a job coaching a professional Hockey team, leaving his wife and five daughters her in the land of BMW convertibles and perfectly manicured Power-moms with Donna Karan Suits. As it has been every night for the past week, his garage is open, the bright yellow light emanating, illuminating -his toned, bulky figure packing up the boxes, boxes, boxes` of his life, lining them up perfectly on his driveway.

What I do instead of the things I am actually supposed to be doing.

The first flight out of LaGuardia leaves at 5:50 AM. Jeremy is going out to LA for good this time, which finds me in a car driving up the FDR with him and Daren as the sun comes up slowly over Park Slope. Daren had offered to drive weeks ago; but since sleep and I have always been strange bed fellows, I offered to come along, in spite of the Godless hour at which we had to leave. The highway, now, is almost completely abandoned and as we get into Queens we see perhaps one car drive past us in twenty minutes. There’s a strange, thick fog that’s unique to New York springtime that covers the Van Wick Expressway as we drive into blinking red lights that loom somewhere in the distance. None of us say a word the entire trip, but sit, comfortable in our silence listening to Joni Mitchell sing about loss and love with abandon.
It is the end of an era, and we are all working on very little sleep.
I, myself, spent the greater part of evenings past sitting in an all night café on 1st and Broadway, drawing and watching as the ghosts of empty taxi cabs flashed yellow, flowing one after the other down otherwise un-traveled Avenues, and lonely people, illuminated by gaudy fluorescent lights sat with books, computers and half finished cups of coffee as if to distract themselves from the night.

Yeah. I didn't finish that one. Perhaps I will, eventually.