When you’re that high above Manhattan, the noise of the city is somehow muted into a soft, deep buzz. All the craziness down below seems to merge together into a sort of designed zen exercise I feel impelled to watch. The frenetic movements of the city look calm and organized from up here, the tiny cars independently changing lanes, slowing or speeding up, and turning corners in a disorganized unison. I’ve been looking down from the 46th floor balcony and watching the cabs below, the buses making their stops. It all seems to flow in a cohesive rhythm, wildly separated from what it feels like when I’m down on the street. I chose one black cab to follow with my eyes. It came up 3rd avenue and turned left on 70th, slowly, waiting for a pedestrian in the crosswalk, then drove on, brushing underneath low hanging leafy tree limbs, on to its destination. It made me wonder if anyone has ever followed my cab with their eyes. Likely not. I’m so far removed from the street that their little black car was smaller than the hot wheels models my brother used to collect as a kid, and yet the people inside this car were as real as I was, and I could see them making what I’m sure they would have thought were some very insignificant turns in traffic, all my attention for those brief moments focused solely on them, and they will never know. Simply fascinating.