The rain in New York City has a particular rhythm, a syncopated percussion against the glass that Gil Evans would have appreciated. It was a Tuesday in late October, the kind of damp, grey afternoon that makes the used bookstores on the West Village sidestreets smell of old paper and damp wool.
The rain in New York City has a particular rhythm, a syncopated percussion against the glass that Gil Evans would have appreciated. It was a Tuesday in late October, the kind of damp, grey afternoon that makes the used bookstores on the West Village sidestreets smell of old paper and damp wool.
