I dream of fire escapes.

The beautiful novel A Tree Grows in Brooklyn instilled in me a romantic attachment to fire escapes. I long to contemplate the world about me from the sturdy protected embrace of emboldened iron. 



"Yes, when I get big and have my own home, no plush chairs and lace curtains for me. And no rubber plants. I'll have a desk like this in my parlor and white walls and a clean green blotter every Saturday night and a row of shining yellow pencils always sharpened for writing and a golden-brown bowl with a flower or some leaves or berries always in it and books... books... books"

Betty Smith.