I sat hard-pressed against the plastic seat on the Metro, green line to Branch Ave, feeling the heat of all the dozens of bodies that surrounded me, 5:30 PM and everyone making headway for home after a long, hot work day. The swampy humidity clung to my arms like sticky tack. I wiped my brow with the sleeve of my blazer and listened to some 90s R & B on my iPod as I c o u n t e d d o w n the exits till I could free myself from the suffocating crowd. It was no day that was even remotely extraordinary, no life-changing series of events, no incredible people I had met; nope, just commuting back to the SE quadrant of town as I had every day that summer. I looked up and took a snapshot with my mind; I remember exactly how that sliver of time felt to me, how it looked, smelledsoundedtasted as I realized my days in D.C. had begun to feel like the norm, that I had grown accustomed to the claustrophobic train cabins, the repetitive street names, and 10% sales tax. So suddenly there was this catastrophic timeturning momentous magnanimous monumental magic of the most mundanely minuscule moment, as ordinary crawled up my veins and absorbed me in it. Somehow squeezed.in.between the rush-hour, the annoyance, impatience, and near-suffocation felt like home.