THE MANHATTAN SKYLION
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been a hunter, possessing a talent for observation, wasted on suburban quarry. Each day, I hunt my prey above the city canopy, shooting dangerous beasts, hiding in plain site, invisible to others.
I remember the day this hunt first began, I was like a newborn baby opening my eyes for the first time. On a classic weekday in New York City, I arrived at my meeting, escaping the street’s squeal of tapping taxi brakes and seductive smells of sugar smoked nuts. Deep in the offices of a large global corporation, I was conducting a meeting between the resident buttoned down bean counters and the defiant, dressed-in-black squad of tortured tacticians. As the meeting progressed, I fogged out on autopilot and glanced out the window from the 21st floor of the Trump Tower. I had a bird’s eye view toward Central Park, looking past the tops of office buildings, skyscrapers and the rarely seen rooftops that cap the heads of buildings like fancy square hats. It was at this moment of conception that I surrendered my visual virginity and witnessed my first Lion Head.
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