Listen Through The Static

The signal to noise ratio in New York City, as I recall through the static haze of memory, is high.

For every police siren, taxi horn, and chattering hipster back in the big city, there is a cricket’s chirp, a locust hum, or distant train’s call here in the heartland. Makes a guy think.

Makes a guy think that maybe there’s a little something more than aspiring to run a major media empire. Makes a guy think that maybe there’s more than Times Square, Soho, and Central Park. Makes a guy think that maybe there’s more than the spotlight, the close-up, and the applause.

It’s difficult to know exactly how my week on the road has transformed me. Tough to tell, really, until I’ve spent a few minutes on the subway, a few hours in the office, a few days in the sky.

I’m flying back to New York in an hour.

I’m flying back to Iowa — back to the heartland — Saturday morning.

And so I’ll meet you when you get here, where the sun begins its struggle, where the streets are strewn with rubble, and the avenues with dreams …

And it’s home.

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