A Subway Story Every day as usual Marion got off the F train at 42nd Street at 12:38 in the afternoon. Then she walked through the tunnel to pick up the 7 to Grand Central. “I could do this in my sleep,” she said to herself. The long hall was all white tiles, except for the arty part that made Marion feel she was dead and underground. There were muted shades of brown tiles arranged like mounds of dirt that rolled along the lower half of the tunnel. Shimmering gold tile tree roots wriggled down from above set into smoother pale blue and pearly tiles. “You could be dead down here,” Marion thought, “and not be frightened.” A quote ran along the wall from Ovid:
A Subway Story
A Subway Story
A Subway Story
A Subway Story Every day as usual Marion got off the F train at 42nd Street at 12:38 in the afternoon. Then she walked through the tunnel to pick up the 7 to Grand Central. “I could do this in my sleep,” she said to herself. The long hall was all white tiles, except for the arty part that made Marion feel she was dead and underground. There were muted shades of brown tiles arranged like mounds of dirt that rolled along the lower half of the tunnel. Shimmering gold tile tree roots wriggled down from above set into smoother pale blue and pearly tiles. “You could be dead down here,” Marion thought, “and not be frightened.” A quote ran along the wall from Ovid: