Some mornings when my thoughts knot with worry, when I feel both jammed and chased, I get up from my desk and walk three blocks to the East River. I buy some hot coffee and a buttered roll and carry my breakfast in its paper bag down to a place I know — a little walkway by the Queens Ferry Pier where 34th Street passes under the shadow of FDR Drive and ends at the water. It’s a good place to sit and stare, especially on these crisp October mornings. Not many people stop here. The ferry passengers from Queens stride down the gangplank at a tilt and hurry away under the roaring overpass toward midtown, leaving the sunny water flubbing gently behind.