The snow is now falling. New York’s streets are coated in salt and slush and rivets of tire tracks. The sidewalks are snowdrifts and puddles, little icebergs of wet jeans. Kids squeal in my courtyard, knocking over each other into snowmen and falling into tight, white stamps on the ground. The news reporters are derisive. The air conditioning units are weighed down by fairy tale clumps. One by one the office doors close. Branches snap and the night is blown into an icy white darkness.
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