The sun shines harder if that’s possible, from one end of an island to another, brandishing an impossible amount of trees. Puddles smell of sterile name brand Band-Aids and rusting tin foil. I walk slower, but I twisted my ankle and it still aches every morning. Bed sheets like bandages. The subway stairs was an early casualty. The sharp rays of sun the second.
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