A Day at the New York Times

Sunlight streams through the thin veil of half-drawn blinds. Feet patter softly through the whitewashed halls dashed with red and orange. Everything is hushed yet alive. Photos lining the walls in pristine frames tell the stories of peoples, cultures and lives in distant lands, far from the echo of city noises and the glow of street lights. These photos are windows; eyes into another’s world, another’s struggle, another’s soul. They hang onto the walls as persistent reminders of the past, clutching to the ever-present memory of days gone by.

Journalists type methodically under the gleam of computer screens, papers strewn across desks while voices murmur, gently humming through the newsroom. The rooms are humbled under the shadows of great writers, Pulitzer winners and authors of stories of war, peace, life and death. The halls are still, yet breathing, speaking the words of histories past, and pulsating to the beat of histories to come. Today becomes yesterday, and the clock ticks on.

#NYT