Cut like a-
11/23/2011
No water is the worst. Movements illuminate in the strangest, darkest way, peaking in sharp motions. I try hard to focus on a friend’s voice, but being dehydrated turns me murky. I try to follow the cool air of her conversation, as she tells me how in order to survive the subway commute she blocks out 80 percent of noise. It’s true, when you travel in mass you have to make a bubble, mine then popped by shrill angular shouts of these three asian girls arguing seemingly about who carries the shopping bags.
So maybe I need more than a fragile bubble, how about a sheet? It’s getting cold, I could use the layers. So I cover up, dive into a book for hours, miles. I’ve grown to love local rides, they’re slow but sparsely occupied, takes some pressure off my sheet. That is until a knife rips through it, the one thrown at a frightened bystander after a lackluster spat between her and a bully in a bright blue coat. People with nothing to do. Bright blue projects through the narrow car, shaking everybody’s seats for no good reason, just to roar nonsense. Now everyone’s upset, and the air is swamped with tension. I drink some water out of nervous habit, it helps a little.
