(Photo by Frances Bourgouin) AT LEAST IN DEATH YOU HAVE A FINE GOOGLE INDEX So she came out like that and I can’t say much. I can’t say much if that is the way you choose to walk, as if you are wearing another face, to carry and massage your own. This lady, I don’t know. She walked like that. Like sort of if seeing the world from her eyes was like looking at a landscape unremarkable and dangerous, which is a feeling you get in a plane, those tiny people, that gut-shifting drop that makes you suddenly tinier than those tiny people, or at least more squat, and eventually makes you into all of your constituent parts and little blood squares. She walked very certain of her place informationally and knowing where her blood was meant to stay and let me tell you, I have worked here for ten years at this subway, sitting in this same booth and I never walked like that, and if I ever thought of walking like that I’m pretty sure somebody would kill me, just recognize an error in the system all of a sudden and pummel me until I would be even lower than I am because my eye was adjusted and red, or because I couldn’t open my mouth without screaming. Then what would I do. So this lady, she walks like that and the train’s coming and, all of these people these days, eager to look down a big dark tunnel and see light, no trust in eventuality. Train comes if it comes. Things transpire without your attention all of the time for god damn sake. Lights turn off, things slow down and it is not your responsibility. It is not about what you do. We do things and they interact with other done things and they move without us, and these things drift like an airplane gliding mindlessly into a mountainside. Incredible unconscious crashing. Little blood squares. So the train is approaching and all of these donkeys retreat because the train had been stalled in the tunnel, just visible, but now it was close and they were sure, but she was not sure. The train had not adjusted favorably in her opinion I guess. She kept leaning in even as it was real present like a steel fact and somebody yelled at her and everyone looked but in the wrong direction but I was looking and she leaned in and—SMACK—knew pain and openness and you can’t say much about that.

(Photo by Frances Bourgouin)

AT LEAST IN DEATH YOU HAVE A FINE GOOGLE INDEX

So she came out like that and I can’t say much. I can’t say much if that is the way you choose to walk, as if you are wearing another face, to carry and massage your own. This lady, I don’t know. She walked like that. Like sort of if seeing the world from her eyes was like looking at a landscape unremarkable and dangerous, which is a feeling you get in a plane, those tiny people, that gut-shifting drop that makes you suddenly tinier than those tiny people, or at least more squat, and eventually makes you into all of your constituent parts and little blood squares. She walked very certain of her place informationally and knowing where her blood was meant to stay and let me tell you, I have worked here for ten years at this subway, sitting in this same booth and I never walked like that, and if I ever thought of walking like that I’m pretty sure somebody would kill me, just recognize an error in the system all of a sudden and pummel me until I would be even lower than I am because my eye was adjusted and red, or because I couldn’t open my mouth without screaming. Then what would I do. So this lady, she walks like that and the train’s coming and, all of these people these days, eager to look down a big dark tunnel and see light, no trust in eventuality. Train comes if it comes. Things transpire without your attention all of the time for god damn sake. Lights turn off, things slow down and it is not your responsibility. It is not about what you do. We do things and they interact with other done things and they move without us, and these things drift like an airplane gliding mindlessly into a mountainside. Incredible unconscious crashing. Little blood squares. So the train is approaching and all of these donkeys retreat because the train had been stalled in the tunnel, just visible, but now it was close and they were sure, but she was not sure. The train had not adjusted favorably in her opinion I guess. She kept leaning in even as it was real present like a steel fact and somebody yelled at her and everyone looked but in the wrong direction but I was looking and she leaned in and—SMACK—knew pain and openness and you can’t say much about that.