At 12th Street, between 6th Avenue and 7th Avenue.
Eight steps! Had I not been on my way to my friend's apartment, I would have stopped to peruse their selection of books. In hindsight, I regret not doing so. I'm not sure, but when I magnify the picture I think I can see a copy of Julia Cameron's "The Artist's Way," which is a fine book. (Ed. Note: I don't recall if I own it, though I think I might; it was required reading for my Creative Writing seminar in college. I could have certainly taken a copy from Tarcher Penguin while I was interning there, if I had the forethought.)
As I walked past stoops cluttered with books, clothes, and toys, all outgrown by their former owners, I was reminded of my mother. I wondered what her reaction would be if she learned about my persistent habit of picking up books from the street. She would undoubtedly refer to the books as "garbage," stubbornly reject my belief that they were anything other than dirty remnants on the sidewalk. I find this thought very amusing, but also somewhat disconcerting, if my mother ever comes to visit me.