The edges of Brooklyn rooftops.

Repeated at this moment as a return nudge to the emails I've been getting about NYC--the EV, Brooklyn, D.U.M.B.O and the corner of Houston and Crosby (Do give a nod to that little Indian man with the food cart who always put extra rice on my plate and talked to me about beautiful "wow wow women" while I sat on the fire hydrant every Tuesday eating lunch): When Basquiat died, Keith Haring sat around in mourning on his couch off Elizabeth street trying to pay homage to his friend from Great Jones whose little scratchings on East Village sidewalks (De La Vega wasn't the first) made him realize how he wasn't the only one who had figured it out. Random diner passings of the most delicate, most fragile, most relevant of glances and quirks. Relevance. Basquiat's signature on every piece was a small crown which, to him, represented youth and innocence. In his sketchings, writings, chalk drawings, and larger pieces, the crown would always be on one of the edges...At his first show after Basquiat's death, Haring showed his piece to the public...The piece, titled "A pile of crowns" was simply dozens and dozens of crowns piled upon one another like a trash heap. No words ever needed to be said.. A lot of people let it go that day. It, as Charlie would inquire about, was that little prickle of regret from not paying more attention to the sidewalk art they had stepped over daily *Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow* That, and the piece allowed him to let go of a part of himself he adored...There was a day in the Winter, a handful of us on a rooftop in GreenpointWilliamsburg. A large bag of Haribo, sticky fingers throwing bears onto little hispters in hoodies. "I just hit that kid in the purple jeans in the eye," "Didn't panda bear backpacks die out in 84?," "I'm upset that I'm so bothered with that suit on the scooter but that just isn't right."...*I have someone I want you to meet. I might die tomorrow, you never know* ...Simultaneously, three introductions just happened. A girl in her twenties just got off her ass after having sat on the bathroom for three hours drawing silhouettes of her former selves; A boy in his teens just made his way after having fallen into the gap between two street ramps; A mother tired of crying in her car opened the garage door and got in a taxi. The three of them miss you dearly. In the time It takes for them to catch up, your letter will have arrived via bike messenger (in a ridiculous chrome fixy, mind you). Get out your binoculars. You're going to want to see the expressions on their faces when they read the last line on why it mattered so much for them to meet.