New York can never be just quiet. Eighth Avenue, rush around Times Square, there is only pause very early Sunday morning. In reverence, appear only the stop lights, rhythmic red-green alternating turns at careful stewardship to not wake the hyper signs. Only briefly, and the whir returns like a toddler aroused from nap.
New York is unique like this - always making noise, as if its stature and grace falls with the dearth of volume. London can be genteel and polite in the bustle; Paris naps on the starry eyes of lovers who claim the banks of the Seine in sparkling moonshine. Yet New York thunders with trucks, honks with taxis, yells with street vendors, pounds with heavy machinery, drones with large cooling systems on buildings, mostly at the same time, at all times.
New York never rests because so many have so much to do - banking, writing, jogging, gambling, filing, acting, mumbling, walking, gazing, chasing, rushing, touching, discovering, losing, becoming, being, encompassing, engaging, remembering nothing if but the experience. Only then does quiet emerge - New York rushes on oblivious as slowly few realize to let the noise fade away.