Rain falls like a veil in these streets, and in the rush of an instant it muddles the clarity which was so abundant a moment before. In the blur of this sudden downpour lie a thousand treasured moments. The memories of most will be washed away in the deluge, while others will find places to pool, to preserve themselves and linger longer. On 33rd street, a young girl draws a line with her finger in the condensation of a plate glass window, eleven stories above the rivers that rush into storm drains. On the Bowery, a man doubled with age moves slowly towards the shelter of a scaffold. His shoulders darken as the cloth drinks the downpour and he is careful with each placement of his cane. A bike messenger flies by- a blur of color and movement- and if you followed his path through the grid of Manhattan, there are other things you‘d see, and so much more you‘d miss. Ink from the day‘s discarded papers bleeds into the puddles that are blown apart by every passing taxi. A woman wipes small drops from the lenses of her glasses, but her eyes never leave the boy who looks down at the wetness of the world beneath him, smiling with mud on his shoes. Some scenes will wash away, others linger and they stay- and new worlds will shine in the light of brighter days.