Something happens when you’re in a place like New York—no, when you’re in New York—and you start seeing the same faces on Manhattan streets.  Identity and anonymity have a precarious relationship here, and there’s something rich in knowing that in the same way you can ride your dreams, you can also slip away, almost disappear if you want to.  So when you start recognizing faces—and realizing they recognize you, too—the balance shakes for a second.  You have to grab tightly to the structure of your world, and figure out that, as a person, you’re built strong enough to withstand each one of the couple dozen earthquakes this place can throw at you daily.