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In the absence of a restful European siesta, New Yorkers take the lunch hour by storm: we get our shoes shined while our hair is being cut, run three errands while eating a sandwich, smoke four cigarettes while we dance past tourists. We jaywalk. We move on. Yet amidst all this independent action there exists an unspoken fraternity. Like members of a secret society, teeming pedestrians march in a parade of broken cadence to countless tunes, in all directions, for every reason. Street corners are standing-room-only meeting halls where shoulders rub shoulders in impromptu one-act plays. I try to be ready for those moments that have a subtle comedy or tragedy to them; moments when strangers come together for a split second and are rendered inseparable through a photograph?