There are two smiles you give, and maybe no one told you, but one of them is a big fat lie. One of them is a stage-whisper. One of them is as real as soapy snowflakes or one of Chekhov’s guns. There is no maple syrup in your maple syrup, I might say. Or maybe I squeeze your hand extra hard and say something like “now make me a muscle” until you flinch. That’s alright, too. Look: I just want that other smile. And it’s not the one when I’m on top, or the one when you’re snapping a photo of me with your fingers in the air. It’s the big, sloppy grin in the morning. It’s untraceable. It’s defaceable. It’s fucking maple syrup.
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