Jan. 8, 2020, 1:30 a.m.
Unable to sleep, I lie on my stomach in bed, chin resting on folded arms, and look through a sliver of window. (I never close the blinds fully. I like to wake with the sun.) I try to memorize my slice of the Manhattan skyline—and I do feel a sense of ownership. It is mine, at least temporarily. I scan the overlapping silhouettes of the buildings, and their many windows, glowing purple and yellow and orange, stars against a city sky that never darkens. If I stand at an extreme angle in my room, I can see, through the window, a brightly lit parking garage to the far left, the south wing of my residence building to the far right, and little else. These are the bounds of my horizon.