I numbly watch a foreign man on the train. He talks across the car to some New Yorkers who half listen to him whilst simultaneously eavesdropping on two Amazonian Jews having an argument: one claims injustice. The train crawls on its old, screeching belly. Molasses moves faster in January, but it is January and I feel like molasses I guess the city reflects my thoughts...
The Amazons are now passive aggressive, I duck my head so they don't know I've listened to the laundry list of a tell tale sign of exhaustion.
Fatigued, I memorize the line of the page of my empty journal. Wishing, Willing Them to fill with a lively recognizable speed of change.