I got down in the uptown side of the 1 station on Canal and proceeded to pace frenetically, unthinkingly, my mind aswim, as is so often the case after work. A cockroach was struggling on its carapace, legs wriggling horribly in the air. Across the track a whistling MTA worker sauntered to and fro, lantern in hand, on a taped-off part of the platform – a demoralizing vision of civic maintenance; man and mankind resigned to the futility of all enterprise.

On my side there were finally two bright eyes of light deep in the tunnel.

The 1 pulled in and its doors opened before me, then the station went all haywire with white noise. It filled the cavern with invisible foam which carried me upon it through the threshold, which sealed the gaps between the cars, which drowned a yawning child, which enveloped and demystified the third rail.