You dear person! My penultimate NYC home was just off Prospect Park, one block off Grand Army Plaza, and I have a terribly romantic/tragic tale of Prospect Park I need to tell some day. About how, when the Haitians stole everything in my tiny apartment, even tore out the plumbing and ripped the molding off the walls, they also either took or let loose my two kittens, Abercrombie and Fitch, who had probably been hiding inside the “Castro Convertible” sofa. I had to move, temporarily, to an even smaller studio on 14th Street in Manhattan. But every day I traveled back on the subway, day or night, and went into Prospect Park, hoping to find some sign of them there. But then I had to leave for San Francisco. And I never came back.
But, yes, there was always wildlife in Prospect Park...you bookworm!!! And you were not the only criminal who pilfered tomes from the sacred stone walls of that vaunted building. I, too, carried several volumes with me to California. To this day I convince myself it was an accident. But, that’s what all felons say.