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come together in a hum. It is a constant hum, like a white noise machine you would use to quiet an infant at night. A glow filters in from right above the stone columns, where a giant string of yellow-tinged electric lights makes a trail all the way around the main entrance, enveloping it in warm golden hues. In the middle of the concourse, on top of the information desk, the brass clock gives off a muted light. The softness, emanating peacefully, settles over the terminal, as if lingering in bed in the late afternoon, watching as the fading sun slowly floods the room. By 7:00 p.m., hundreds of people rush, push, shove, and throw apologies over their shoulders without ever looking back. An hour later, the crowd trickles out and everything is quiet; a calmness blanketing the terminal. There are still people around, but they appear less frazzled, not as hurried. Three men come to a stop, standing a few feet away from the information desk. They are hugging; this is not just a
slap on the back but a tight hug—the kind people give to loved ones before saying goodbye. They go their separate ways—one disappears through the shuttle passage, the other up the West Balcony stairs. When they are gone, and only then, the last man turns around, the sound of his footsteps fading as he returns to 42nd Street. We spend our days rushing mindlessly from one place to the next. Everything surrounding us inevitably gets filtered through the lens of our daily struggles. We remember our lives in flashes and instants, one followed by the next. A little girl stops to look at the sky, a passing smile brightens the day of a random person, friends saying goodbye make a stranger’s stomach clench with melancholy. A place is never just a floor, walls and a roof, built by humans for functional purposes and nothing else; a place is the keeper of moments.
Volume 5 55
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