Oh thank you, tall man in the subway with the purple striped shirt and gray suit, for not giving me a dirty look - heck, for not looking at me at all - when my huge bag (and I) was so helplessly pushed into your gut like a piece of clay forcefully kneaded into a mold, during rush hour this morning on the Line 2 subway, even after I resisted boarding the first train that came by because it was already packed like sardines, and you, tall man, were kind enough to put up with this constant shoveling of bodies for a good 13 minutes, when I would’ve muttered about 48 obscenities under my breath for deciding to take the Metro at 8:30am on a weekday, but your calmness brought me back to Earth and made me realize that everyone else was suffering this hell just like me, and instead I kept quiet and took the time to compose the longest run-on sentence in my head, ever. About the man in the subway.

After almost everyone got off the subway at People’s Square, I found the oasis of the space in the little “platform” between the subway cars, where not too many people like to stand and there is a constant breeze of “fresh” air. Ahhhh. This is where I subway surf!