Express went local. 5 vibe felt off. People very tall sitting down like fallen trees. I had a whore in my head. Hundreds of them. Watched an interesting-looking woman navigate her way around, tourist, traveling alone, looking for the Oculus, it seemed. Nervous, as she would be, in the role of the whore in my head. I wanted to Platt Street her. Wanted to tell her the tale of Gold and John. Lament the Pine Street public space. A full day improvising a relationship based on streets and alleys might end with coaxing her into anal sex at my bungalow, or massaging her fingers with my tongue on the 5 train where we met. Except we never met. I only spectated upon her presence, her profile, for a passage of time no more than 2 minutes. Her lips were disproportionately broad for her paltry, 50-something frame. Why is she here? Who comes to New York just to walk around and look at things they will never see again? I will search for her. I will spend tomorrow on the subway, all day, exiting only for necessity, until I find her again. I will dress well and brandish a book or magazine that ignites the intellect of lonely women tourists traveling alone, whoring the subways with genteel intent, as I do the same.