Edit: The project has been revived in Ciudad de México, México since March 2017. The following is the original description.
Place: NYC, yes the one with – let’s say the one that one might kiss or bite or get stumped on or run over – that one.
At Rise: A book of 2-by-2 denim samples in hand, she compared their colors: indigo, navy, a wash of acid, white. Sunlight broken up by the steel truss, her gaze suspended from the steel East River.
Sparkling rosé, or a name of that sort, rooozeeee
of gold, curvy tiles, full
too dark, and too much copper
(There was no time for probation, but everyone pretended they were a part of the club.)
Potted fern. Beam of sun through the cavity between the curtains.
The basil scent of Mrs. Meyer that was nothing like basil at all.
She first used it at her gay friend’s place.
Who cares about the balant display of scent anymore?
Maybe that was covered by the First Amendment.
A wilted bunch of lettuce, a half-eaten can of chestnuts, two batteries.
A stem of rosemary in the olive oil, so old that it witnessed, in its lifetime, the evaporation of four bottles of perfume.
Her mother used to scold her.
Never too much on your wrist, it makes you cheap.
For about a year in New York, I held up the glowing rectangle and pretended that I was reading. I would find the faces. I would find the hands. I would find the quick glance, the empty stare, the careful scan. The train moved on, the moment disappeared, the people left. Now occupying the seats: a different skin tone, a stunning lack of wrinkles, an unrecognizable tongue, new shades of silence.
I love the beginning of imaginations, which the train provided endlessly. The average MTA ridership on a weekday is 5,650,610 as of 2015. So. Five point six million imaginations per day, if you feel like it.
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