The Franklin Library has no Books in it. Should That Make me Mad?

By Caramia Putman

“Seven people have died walking tunnels between Subway trains in 2018. Don’t take the risk.”

He could see into the train windows as they passed. In the tunnels he shoved his chest in, imagining he was a sheet of paper, the wind forcing him steadily to the wall. He noticed a young girl sleeping inside the car, acrylic nails resting softly on her orange bag. Over her was the sign. Surely he would not be the eighth. Surely he would not be.

He could peruse the in-betweens with his eyes closed, with acute balance. Much like meditation, he tried not to let anything darken his mind. Not the statistics, nor the wind. It was the corner of the city’s mind that seemed to be meditating too. The place void of snippets of flyers, billboards, conversations, varied scents and sneakers. He pursued its skeleton. He reached underneath its streets, its clothes. While people were only eager to resurface. A machine pumping people from one place to another was all it really was. Like our brain is for thoughts, sensations, the nervous system.