This train. The steel artery which flows beneath the city's skin and moves our blood across the lines. Hereon the train I sit between two points in life and smell my palm. My palm, because my fingers press against my forehead and so assume that familiar pose peculiar to the young and drunk. A couple sits to my left. Her head collapsed onto his shoulder, saliva mixed with something drips from her dumb mouth, but her eyes are open. His eyes are not. He clutches his stomach with his left hand, but his right arm is wrapped around her neck. Across from them sits a homeless man holding a brick, but he sits with such etiquette that he could only be insane. To his left, directly infront of me, sits Joseph. I named him two stops ago. Joseph is an anachronism, which means that he's sober. I wonder if Joseph has children, or if he's sporty and yet likes to paint minatures. Ofcourse he possess all of these qualities, Joseph is who he is to me regardless of reality. My senses, still familiar with inertia, tell me that the train is slowing. I look around, there's the highway. There's the stark night and the finger nail moon. Below is a valley, I know where we are. That's Thorncliff Park, or a piece of it. Despite the hour many apartment or office lights are still on in the distance. The train has stopped. It scared the shit out of me when Joseph, now looking at his watch, got up and turned to face the window behind him. Who moves on a subway unless they're getting off or sitting down? I didn't notice it earlier, but he was holding a large black gym bag. This bag was put down on the seat which was now between Joseph and the window. He unzipped the bag took out a pair of binoculars and proceeded to bring them to his face. I couldn't see his eyes, obviously, his back was to me.