From my window on the 24th floor, I can see all the way uptown. On a clear day, thirty, forty blocks up.

When it rains, the clouds descend, sitting low outside my window. They elide the view, bringing buildings on the Upper East Side oddly, hazily close.

On those rainy days, the air outside my window is thick and heavy. It can be scooped with a ladle. The city is quieter, slower, weighed down by the heavy air. I spend all morning lying in bed, pinned by the weight of the clouds, listening to the rat-a-tat-tat of raindrops on pane glass.