Those who live in the lap of luxury spend their time running through Central Park or drinking in it throughout the day. Those who must work console themselves with the manicuredness of Bryant Park, an oasis in a sea of imposing office buildings.
To distract yourself from the grey, dreary fluorescence of your interior surroundings once you drag yourself back to the moneymaking compound, you sit in Bryant Park to get a mild intake of Vitamin D and watch other young professionals talk of banal things like their status on the corporate ladder and which company pays more than the one they’re working at.
In spite of the incessant idle chatter, you have found a port in the storm of giving a fuck, a place where serenity is possible. That is, until you’re taking a bite into your homemade sandwich (you have to save your pennies, after all) and a bird shits on you at approximately the same moment. Your small source of comfort is now just another hell.