“I think I’ll call it morning” is playing while the toast is turning crispy and brown. A rich man, probably indian, shows up in front of his window and drinks his coffee. He lays his mug on the marble top and with slow gestures he sets his cufflinks. Our gazes meet for a fraction of second and his girl in nightgown comes from behind to fold his white collar. I turn around, zip up my hoodie and leave the house with the toast in my mouth. There are several travel options to Varick st. but I always chose the long one, heading east while the office is norht-west, but here is Chinatown and that’s where I want to be having my breakfast.