Despite an inveterate fear of heights, I sometimes dream of hiking up the George Washington Bridge at night and, wearing a squirrel suit, leaping into a glide off one of its towers. It probably has something to do with my lifelong wish to be a New York pigeon. Ah, to be loathed but ineradicable. Or maybe l’appel du vide—“the call of the void”—is the simplest explanation. Am I on my own here?

Seriously, imagine coasting headlong over the Hudson—the city’s stalagmite skyline on your left, the slightly less dazzling tangle of humanity that is Newark to your right—and Captain Sullying yourself down onto the river. Then you’d float toward the Verrazzano on your back and smoke a cigarette as you drift among the barges. Nice, right? If you’re with me, here’s a soundtrack for before and after the jump (which should be performed as soon as the snares come in on track eight, by Haim). If you’re not, maybe you should see a shrink.