The building was a sheer, glass box that rose from the shops lining Avenue A like a dark-mirrored fortress. The windows looked like high definition televisions, and seemed to drain the avenue of light, absorbing it into a greasy black hole. There was a dull glow that radiated off of the huge square pains of glass, and one walked by with the uneasy feeling that if you paid enough, you could peer out, but no one could see in. There were no curtains. There was no leftover Christmas decoration. It was a fat, sterile thermometer poking rudely out of the city. Nothing about the dark, glass tower felt organic or soft in any way. It looked like a sad, fucked up idea of what a Howard Roark building might want to look like.
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