It’s different up here, I admit. It smells sweet. We stop in front of a house that is in need of a paint job. The three-story is ready to give—scratched up, mauled over by decades or centuries of wind burns and rain. Two brick tire tracks head up the driveway to an equally beaten garage. We stand side by side. A house and a garage. I want him to hold my hand, but he doesn’t. I want him to kiss me, but he doesn’t know. Trees hover, spilling giant, brassy, fairytale leaves. The house is leaning into the garage. A light goes on upstairs, and we look away from the house and into each others’ eyes. The rock wall has stone bulbs, pressed together like our knuckles.
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