i don't run anymore. people run to the trains. running makes me sweaty and tired. stage managers run around screaming fuck! looking for a hand towel. a woman in too much orange and black eyeliner pleads for my spot by the door of the subway so she could run and catch the 10:30 (there is no 10:30 on saturdays) so our paths cross in the main concourse and she mumbles something in her embarassment. but i can't hear her because the white stripes are blaring in my world, rhyming. she's in the car behind me, and this train doesn't leave for another 15 minutes. february 2003