The moon hung low between the second and third big strut of the Brooklyn Bridge. It was as though the bridge itself was an ancient device intended to measure the moon‘s cycle. Strange music hung in the air, sitar riffs with a subtle jazz beat. I felt something warm on my ear and shuddered, pulling my cardigan tighter, and moving away from the railing, first walking, then falling into a light trot.

The cities were in fact made of people‘s dreams. It was like the city below dreamed the city above and, on a metaphorical level, vice versa, as the inhabitants in the sky tended to forget about life on earth after a while and dreamed up stories about it instead. In a way, the two cities dreamed each other.