Subway announcements today were painfully loud. Someone needed to inform the conductor that his voice was grating into the skulls and psyches of a generation lost in transit. I walked a lot yesterday. I had to call out sick from work because I slept for 13 hours on Sunday, totally destroying any sense of temporal balance. I felt like misery itself, misery incarnate. But it’s fine now. I took a G train to Metropolitan Avenue and just wandered around that area. Street after street. How many can I remember. Powers Street. Devoe. One that I thought was Cortelyou but was actually something else. Bushwick Avenue. Who cares? THere is a MEMORIAL GORE that I’ve encountered several times. Streets felt difrerent yesterday. Someone emerged from a building on which a sign read “NO TRESPASSING. RESIDENTS AND THEIR VISITORS ONLY.” I wouldn’t say I wanted to trespass but I wanted to connect with somebody. Anybody. Even if it meant inviting myself into their house, their condo, their car. I looked at all the windows in all the buildings and at all the driveways and exposed living rooms, wanting to just walk in to these rooms and sit down for shining conversation. Would there be anything to talk about? Let’s discuss. There was nobody home. I approached the Bushwick Motel, or maybe it was Hotel. It looked dangerous and brave. Small rooms for small encounters. My goal of finding street in this area that was new to me failed. I knew this area better than I thought. I should have taken that G train to Church Street. Somehow my wanderings had me following the path of the L train, which was not deliverate on my part. I decided the Montrose Street station beckoned. I’d passed through that station en route to Ridgewood many times but I don’t remember setting foot in it until this. It was u nremarkable. The L was crowded. I’ve been reevaluating my approach to seating on the subways. I used to be drawn to the forward/backward facing seats that provide a window view. No more. I’ve been trapped in that spot at times. Last week an obese man sat in the seat in front of me, then a derelict man, stinking of piss and I don’t know what, sidled in next to me. He was coughing and snorting and eating and throwing his food onto the floor. I could not get out without disrupting this individual’s performance, which is exactly what I felt it to be. Performance. I thought his stench might stick to me but it seemed to have stayed away. My favored seat now is the one closest to the door. I think it is everyone’s favorite, whether they know it or not. I could have walked more yesterday. I needed the release. I walked past the stripper’s house. Twice. I need nothing and want nothing from her but I still like to make my passage. A tribute of sorts, or simply a reminder should she actually see me passing by. I told her, truthfully, that she should not be surprised to see me on her street because of its proximity to a certain place that I frequent. That was years ago and the disclaimer (of sorts) remains true. She was a nasty woman but I knew that upon entering into the arrangement. I had seen her previously, screaming murderously at a man she barely knew. He had refused her advances and she was not to be rejected without a volcanic exit speech. I would not have been surprised if blood came pouring out of her eyeballs during this interaction, as the man she was railing against sat silent. I was awake at 4am today . I will sleep well tonight, I think. It is 8:24am and I am at the workplace. I applied for another job that would take me to a very different environment than this. The Radio Room located in what can safely be called an asshole part of Queens. I happen to know the area well. It abuts a cemetery I used to frequent, and which I even considered for my final arrangements. It is near a storage facility where I helped S move her stuff into a locker after she got kicked out of her apartment.