In the late day's haze we watch a pink spotlight sun as it's swallowed by the crooked teeth of our cardboard cutout skyline. The city spits back a slipper moon, sliced and stained like a blood orange, to hang as garnish on the rim of the Paramount. All around there echoes a crackling cackle as the sky bursts forth in diadems and dahlias of every hue - not the excess of our Independence but an encore, the Maker meets His mark. The laude is applauded from the spectators watching from this Greenpoint perch, whose feet dangle from the roof's ledge over the denizens below. Just like that, the city we know is new again, an experience amplified by the presence of unfamiliar and rediscovered friends.