Tonight, in case you are wondering, the Empire State Building is purple with a tall white antenna. And if you must know, it grew cold on my walk home. The wind shook all through my hair. Now my room feels sterile, like a hospital bed. I turned the music off. The heater hissed for a moment, collected itself, and went silent again. It’s silent. If I strain, I can hear cars journey up and down the FDR. If I strain even harder, I can hear the choppy little East River waves slosh up against it. This all fades into a dull white pulse. The heater, like most things, is not quite sure what to do. Neither am I.
Subway MapSubway Philosophy is about New York, culture, sex, publishing, memories, alcohol, or a combination of the above. Originally taken from drunken musings on the subway, it has evolved into something extraordinarily similar to most young blogs: which is to say, redundant, romantic, and woefully introspective.
Current Subway ReadingWhite Teeth