Subway ad posters lining the station, framed with tidy black borders on the vaguely institutional tiles of the station walls (like school bathroom walls or gym showers).
Someone, maybe several someones, has peeled the posters off in strips and jagged chunks, almost invariably defacing pictures of women, to reveal the posters layered underneath, a substrate of hidden messages, out-of-date targeted marketing. Scarlett Johansen, moodily contemplating the ghost in her shell, has had her right breast skinned away to reveal what looks like a chubby baby's arm; a family in cheery Christmas sweaters is torn in half from the waist down, and underneath lies a half naked couple in shades of gray, heads missing, grimly and passionately embracing.
The brakes of a train pulling into the station squeak complaints, wheels grumble over uneven patches of track, both speaking languages I don't speak, but understand.
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One year ago: Unfair Advantage
Two years ago: Under My Breath
Four years ago: Negotiating Alone Time
Nine years ago: 4-13-08 Duly Noted
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