The F train passes high above Brooklyn at this point, on its way to the highest subway station in the world. In the west, traffic passes back and forth across the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, but somehow in the benevolent light of sunset, everything seems serene and unhurried, even the 18-wheelers and the junkers and the pickup trucks.
"Hey, I haven't been here since they refurbished this station," I say as the train pulls in and stops at the platform.
Everything looks new and shiny, but the mosaics that they use to show the station name look crude and shabby, not at all like the elaborate, sophisticated ones they made back when the subways were new.
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