Sunday, 18 August 2002 | Commute

Generous hips, the bulging of the back clasp of a bra, a gelled comb-over, painted toenails on feet with elevated heels, dirty fingernails on hands wrapped around a silver pole, the sprouting brown roots underneath a sprawl of bright orange hair. Unless you close your eyes, you're almost obligated to stare at some part of someone—looking away would only bring another person into your field of vision. So you concentrate on a 1x1 foot square of whatever it is in front of you, studying it, until the train stops and doors open and the contents shuffle around a bit. You make brief eye contact with some of the people who aren't asking for money, and you sit wedged between strangers whose warmth you feel on your left and right. Much of what you observe drifts in and out of your consciousness without judgment, until the extraordinary jerks you awake.