I think it’s food. All anyone talks about is food. Indirectly, when discussing the nuclear winter, the collapse of civilization, the end of the social safety net… all anyone is really talking about is food. Without using the exact words they talk about a bagel with pickles and cream cheese, and a doughnut. They talk about feeding a newborn with the crust of a river turned to ash by alien spacecrafts’ fuel leaks and explosions.

Tomorrow will be mid to upper 80s and I intend to scout out yet another payphone that turned up at random on Cyclomedia. With the warmer weather I will wear my sleeveless shirt that makes me look ridiculous (to me) with my tubby paunch. I would like to make that paunch disappear. I see myself in a mirror and do not recognize my naked self. I was always thin as a rail. Fundamentally I think I still am. It’s mostly beer fat, questionable diet, and a full-time desk job. There are also vermin and gremlins that inhabit my innards, occupying unknown amounts of space. Some nights I shit them out but mostly they remain stubbornly at home, huddled away in the corners where evacuating the bowels cannot reach.

I thought this was a cool shot, showing that the MTA deliberately bolted this sign down upside-down.

Made it to a new-to-me 181, on Grand Concourse in the Bronx.