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High on the wall of a brick building in the Parkchester section of the Bronx, a jaunty terra cotta troubadour forever plays his accordion and opens his mouth in wordless song. Peering from the window of Bergdorf Goodman, an emerald green gorilla made from feathers and sequins surveys a mystifyingly fortified Fifth Avenue outside Trump Tower, as though across an unbridgeable abyss. A fellow rider on the E train clasps a service dog that, as she also does, has a symbolic safety pin stuck to its coat. Jangled by the election and left off kilter in the last month, a walker in the city still found some assurance in the beautiful, if faded, hard structures and in the perennial urban pleasure of watching New Yorkers interact. Who is he searching for, the man who daily takes up a position on Eighth Avenue in his sculptural greatcoat? What do they see, the man on the subway gazing adoringly at the woman in the faux leopard topcoat, the woman peering into the dark tunnel? It really doesn’t matter. Every instant, some new narrative is composing itself and as quickly dissolving, with only the shutter of an iPhone to record that it ever occurred.