Early morning. As the light rises over Manhattan, the neon of the square is briefly at its weakest, as though surprised by the reemerging, daily challenge presented by the dawn sun. Times Square has no time for this, this relic from a past age of diurnal rhythms. Grandfather can come and sit at the table, sure, just so long as he doesn’t tell us his stories—anyhow, his purchasing power is long gone now, if he ever really had any at all.
