Manhattan. At the per-renovation Plaza, looking up. An unusually clear, crisp day in summer. Closed. The financial district, a couple of years post 9-11. Graffiti, streetside. Summer feet. West Side story. The aesthetics of construction. This repurposed sign cracked us up endlessly, for some reason. I have always loved the subway. Even when I had to take it every day from 168th St all the way down to 59th at 5 a.m....before they'd cleared the bums out and hosed down the platform. Even then. The sound, the weird, displaced molecules of the moving cars. The rocking, rollicking sound of it. The film-frame flip of lighted windows racing past steel girders. The echo. The hot wind. The reek.