We moved across the bedroom floor like ballet dancers on speed, our legs twisted and our backs arched against shiny hardwood. Where there was dust we sneezed. The lights were turned off and we felt comfortable in the fullness of the dark. Eventually, our pliés and tondues fell out of sync. A streak of light cast itself against the wall. When we collapsed, the whole evening did, too, and we tumbled upward and out.
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