You do look like a jungle through the leaves of my window garden, dear Naked City. The s of cabs could be fireflies. The high pitched breaks of the subway under Broadway could maybe be a song of a red bird. The river could be filled with curious crocodiles and there could be animals living in the tiny cages piled all the way into the sky. You could be a jungle of sorts, dear New York City. I know you like to pretend to be one. As much as you pretend to be a desert sometimes to some. As much as you are a home. And you are a the carrier of love as well. You carry love from generation to generation. Lovers never really sleep. I guess this is your secret. A jungle, a desert, a home. A lover a loved one. Dressed up and naked, restful and fully awake, how could one not love a place like New York?