The Zanti Misfits, an episode of the 1960s TV show The Outer Limits, showcased ant-like aliens with human faces who were a formidable force. They mercilessly killed Bruce Dern as bad-boy Ben Garth.

Peekskill's overcast sky might be gloomy, but it seems to cast an interesting spell on the town, doesn't it? The coffee house buzzes with life, Bank Street is a merchant's playground, and Ronan... well, Ronan might just be Peekskill's most elusive grocery ninja, sneaking off to C-Town with the stealth of a cat. And let's talk about the Charles Journal's new spinoff – it's like a time machine in print, whisking us back to young Charles's days in San Francisco. Those lost journals? They're probably having their own adventure at the bottom of the bay, or maybe they've been turned into the most dramatic, angst-ridden paper mache art in history.

As for Mr. Gorgeous at the coffee house, he's the human equivalent of a Greek statue, casually picking up his order. He wears sandals, and I find myself noting the size of his feet—long and slender for some reason. His tanned legs are hairless and sculpted in grey slim shorts. Next time, forget the sneaky photo I didn't take; maybe I'd get up and start a conversation about the weather. It's always the weather, isn't it? That's the universal icebreaker. Just imagine the story you could tell: "It all started with a chat about the clouds and the heat that happened afterwards..."  Now that's a journal entry worth keeping!

A sparrow flits across the plaza courtyard at the Flatiron Building, known as Ester Place. A beautiful baby girl pitbull, her white and brown face alert, perks up her ears at the sound of the sparrow. Her guardians sit at a nearby table, engrossed in a topic that piques my interest: old British horror films. The animated, bearded man I recognize is recounting the tales of the ghastly British films he's seen with such enthusiasm that it's comical, especially since I remember those same ridiculous films and have seen them too.

The morning brings a gentle breeze through the courtyard as I bask in the sun under an umbrella, reading a few pages of Harper Lee's 'To Kill a Mockingbird,' more for study than leisure. I admire her writing style. Ever since watching the film adaptation years ago, with Gregory Peck portraying Atticus, I've wanted to read the book. It's one of the most profound films depicting the racism prevalent in the South at the time.

Many positive developments are unfolding, just as Saleem foretold, urging me to remain patient. There were times I doubted it all, but now, I truly believe in his words.

​Pier 86, where the skyscrapers stretch up in the early morning light, is not just a pier; it's a stage for the silent steel sentinels of a warship that have traded cannon blasts for camera flashes.

​They've seen more action than a blockbuster movie marathon, and if those old decks could talk, they'd probably just ask for a fresh coat of paint and a good night's sleep.

Viewing Hudson Yards framed by the blossoms at Pier 86.

Peekskill, the little town that could... and did! It's like Mother Nature herself decided to throw a paint party and used the sky as her canvas.

A double rainbow, you say? That's just Peekskill's way of showing off its special effects budget that makes this place so special.

And let's be honest, who needs Hollywood when you've got Annsville Creek turning into a real-life Rainbow Road?

Peekskill is the kind of place where even the weather seems to say, "Hey, look at me, I'm fabulous!" and you can't help but agree.

Peekskill, never change.

​Life is a tapestry of moments, some as light and uplifting as a sparrow's chirp, others as tense as a stand-off in Peekskill Plaza. In the avian world, a chubby baby sparrow demanding food with the ferocity of an opera singer is a scene of nurturing and growth, a fluffy ball of feathers with an appetite larger than its wingspan. Meanwhile, in the human realm, conflicts can escalate quicker than a New York minute, with tempers flaring and knives flashing like an ill-advised Broadway revival.

​Yet, amidst the chaos, there's a glimmer of hope when peace prevails, and the curtain falls without tragedy. It's a reminder that, whether feathered or not, we're all part of this unpredictable show called life, where sometimes the best we can do is throw birdseed into the wind and hope for the best.

The Pearsons old place is now a verdant jungle where whispers of the past rustle through the leaves like gossip at a family reunion. It's a place where you'd indeed need the multitasking prowess of an octopus to navigate the dense foliage, which has taken over with the tenacity of a telemarketer. The little hill, once the throne of my youthful escapades, now stands guard over the pond, a stoic keeper of liquid history and childhood schemes.

Nature, the world's most patient reclaiming agent, has transformed these arenas of my youthful glory into tranquil retreats, where the only echoes of battle are the creaks of branches and the scurrying of woodland critters. And those power lines, strung up like the strings of an old banjo along the old dirt road, pluck out melodies of days when the Pearsons and their neighbors ruled this slice of earth with the might of their laughter and the bonds of community.

​It's a place where every stone and creek bed holds a story, and every gust of wind carries the echoes of 'the good old days,' ready to be retold by anyone willing to listen to the hum of the lines and the whispers of the trees.