A Visitor in My Own Home

I'm staying in a hotel on 40th Street in Midtown. All I've been doing lately (and instinctively) is stream-of-consciousness travel writing/blogging. And checking into another frigid hotel room makes me think I should look out the window and start writing about whatever I see. Trouble is, when I look down or walk to work on 5th Avenue, I'm just bored. Same faceless tourists, same lions in front of the library, same butterlike August air.