I freely admit that I don’t take to dreamlike stories, but Grimshaw’s 15-minute surreal
read about a jilted man who wanders through the Cloisters with a pony-tailed guard drew me
in; and I’m sure it would have done so even if the space-bending tunnels that connected the
medieval gardens to sundry places throughout New York hadn’t also connected to sundry
times.
Actually it wasn’t cool, but I threw the scarf around my neck and headed for the
Cloisters, inertia being my guiding principle.
1 English variant