The subway had its own rules of conduct, an entirely different underground law that paid no respect to natural light. Inches of space were respected more than kind words. Beauty was magnified in the florescent glow of the quick-pulling cars. Eye contact, if made, was subtle with heavy implications of sex and wanting. Unless you were with someone, everyone was single on the subway, everyone was alone, ring or no ring on their third- finger of their left hand. Couples took up their own space like twins in the womb. Books and newspapers were angled down so all faces were equal and unobscured by words. There should be no words on the subway, the equalizer, the underground level of all playing fields. Little white ribbons roped around pockets and tucked neatly in the ears, little shoelaces of lonely music dribbling down collars. Every holding on. Everyone going forward.
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