These are the things I see on the train, and type in my phone. Part 3 (2013)

Sitting here in the homeless seats of an unsettlingly silent a train, I feel my body beginning to betray me. Even with the hot fresh coffee slowly coursing through my veins, I feel my muscles humming, vibrating within my skin, with anticipation of every blink. The feeling of weightlessness. The sensation of ease when a blink lingers shut a moment, a millisecond, a wing-flutter too long. The way your feet feel once they've finally woken back up; they've stopped tingling but the feeling was right there, just a breath ago.
I intentionally left the first car I sat in, knowing full well it's safer to be in a car with three people than just one; faceless, hunching for warmth, shadowed at the other end. This one contains soft snores, scuffles and sniffles, as everyone follows suit into the awkwardly popular car.
The conductor enters, alert, to the crackle of his walkie talkie. Asks me how I'm doing. I'm clean, wearing tweed and faux fur, with a travel mug versus your generic Pleasure To Serve You paper cup of life blood. I don't belong in these seats, but it's nice to know he noticed me even for a minute. I have a witness.
There's peace of mind in having a witness at 3:31am on a Sunday.

The vampires drunks and insomniacs alike (in this city) flood the streets and trains as previously shirtless bartenders, wide awake for their lingering clientele, don hoodies, turn on harsh reality from overhead the bar, and count their Washingtons.

The conductor has a genuine voice. He announces all the local stops like a vintage Westerns narrator over a static radio line. Dykeman is next, stand clear of the closing doors. He directs, details and assures us our patience is appreciated as we hold in station after station, like a bad stop animation. Rats crowd the Express track, laughing at our tortoise pace downtown: mocking our confines to an agenda outside these tunnels.