Dear Nan and Pop,

It has been a minute since you heard from me directly and I figured now was as good a time as any to inform you both of my learnings and exploits, my truths and lies, and my reckless abandonment of youth that has occurred so far during my time in college.

So far, The New School has been a truly exhilarating place of not only academics, but of a cultural tableaux that consists of people from countries like Italy and Switzerland, Brazil and Georgia, and Russia and Korea. Everyone here, no matter where they’re from, has a different story that is infinitely more fascinating than the last. It feels–in a way–like I’m Fitzgerald, discovering New York the way it was meant to be. Socialites against blue collar workers, fashion designers against philosophers, opera singers against architects, all following the same beating drum that their life can–and should–be more than it is.

I’ve hardly had a moment to stop and think about all of this, but as I write this letter, it comes out like a raging river. To parties that consist of aerial acrobats that last till four, to red carpet masquerade balls, to looking up and seeing the blue sky against an urban jungle, I may never want it to end. But sooner or later–no, let it be later–it will. All the excess of life will fade into the evening mist, becoming fog under yellow cabs.

Until the sun, slowly at first, starts to rise. And as it comes up, reflecting off the concrete and glass, the buildings become alive again. Everything from ten story apartments to men sleeping on the street begins anew. Then, as the people wake–empty bottles on the floor and a headache that doesn’t want to go away–they open their windows to hear and see this wonderful, chaotic mess that we call life. A bizarre painting full of color and lines, shapes and figures, hopes and dreams. Impossible to look away and impossible to not love.

Love, your grandson
Miles