The subway is a long, living coffin.

We live our lives recreating tragedy and re-experiencing loss. Those left behind draft unsent letters and hunt wounded ghosts in the subway. It is empty, slowly rocking like a crib on the track. Outside, the clouds loom and the thunder purrs and the city is wrapped in a cocoon of yellow-gray fog. Underground, New Yorkers hold their loneliness like candles or cigarettes. Whichever it may be, it is a hot flame of desperation. It is backlit desire. It is the sweet sweat of the subway. Let us down slowly into the deep blue concussion of the neighborhood. For now, we are under the ground, we are hollow and preserved, one billionth the size of a gravestone.