Seven scotch-and-sodas later and the broadcast in my head blurs counterproductively. I go myopic. I go downward dog on the avenue. I go home. The bus goes south and so does the temperature. The busdriver smiles wide. His lips part like horizontal curtains and his teeth are the morning sun. The dust-burned journey trends onward down and down, lower and lower.
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