You were my anchor. Or something heavy. Like carbon diamonds. Like solid gold handcuffs and the roots of a tree. The roundness of the earth, and the weight of the sky. You were muscle. You were the heaviest bone, the spine of a book. I locked you in a cabinet of memories and vodka shots. I stole photographs of you. Like road maps. Like bullets. Like astronomy lessons from the ancients. Like the time I watched you watch yourself in the mirror, polarized by the elements and charged like a magnet.
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