i really don't have a good high-resolution intuitive street-level feel for the shape of nyc across time like i do for the midwest or west, or at least its not very fresh. i couldn't read it. but i could still easily tell that something wasn't quite right, not sure how that passed muster.
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At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
her stove, and lays out food in tins.
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