The fingers around this subway pole have chipped purple nail polish--seemingly quite a few days old. I wonder if you could plot that out consistantly. Like, 35% coverage means six days. It matches her yellow eye shadow--that is, if she were a Lakers fan. I doubt it. She's reading a comic book--graphic novel rather. Mice with sunglasses are in the one flopped over panel that I can see. The man next to her is trying to man a call as we cross the Manhattan bridge. It doesn't seem to be working. He is reading an article in the paper about some kid hit with a stray bullet that just got out of the hospital. I wish someone would adopt all these stray bullets--or at least spay or neuter them to help control the bullet population. Airwalks. That's what she's wearing. Bronx mother admits to fatally bashing tot. Poor tot. Never had a chance. Canal St. Asians get off, hipsters get on. Sudden turn... I nearly fell over but I grabbed he pole just in time. It was good aim because there were five hands on the pole already. Comic girl is sleeping standing up. For some reason I think everyone knows I'm writing about this subway car. I'll stop now. The jig is up.