Keats and his nightingale were half in love with easeful Death. Ivy is totally in love with eggplant pizza and quite fond of Braedan. Braedan is... well, Braeden is Braedan and nothing is easeful for him. Then there is New York. As another dead writer had it, all the world's a stage and New York is stagier than most, above and below. This is, in the end and in the beginning and most parts in between, a love story - with eggplant pizza and Sandman murals, elephants and haunted iPods, long dead poets and abandoned metro stations, strange cats and jealous barkeeps; all the stuff that dreams are made of. Which leads us to the overwhelming question: If life's a bumper sticker, should it really read, "What would Rilke do?" Probably not. Certainly not if Ivy has anything to do with it - and she just might.