THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS

This morning I was literally the only person on my train who wasn't sleeping on the ride in. It's not that long a trip, and it's the milk run, with stops every eight feet between Astoria and Midtown, and even at that it's 20 minutes, maybe a half hour if there's some to-do under the East River.

Also, it wasn't like this was 5:30 in the morning. The sun was up, it was a quarter to nine, and all the working gurls and guys were nodding off in their undrank coffees like someone had pumped chloroform into the car. I half-expected ninjas or some evil menace to get on at some point and rifle everyone's purses & wallets, but the closest thing even visually to that kind of hello-there was a bunch of Goths who got on at 36th St. They were all apparently going to the same place, as they sat four wide in an empty three-seater and curled up against each other like newborn puppies.

If it wasn't for the guy on the one side of me who, while not exactly snoring, had some sort of septum issue that made him hiss loudly through his nose, I could have shot a pastoral scene in the place. Hell, maybe I will.