The fingers around this subway pole have chipped purple nail polish--seemingly quite a few days old.  I wonder if you could plot that out consistantly.  Like, 35% coverage means six days.   It matches her yellow eye shadow--that is, if she were a Lakers fan.  I doubt it.  She's reading a comic book--graphic novel rather.  Mice with sunglasses are in the one flopped over panel that I can see.  The man next to her is trying to man a call as we cross the Manhattan bridge.  It doesn't seem to be working.  He is reading an article in the paper about some kid hit with a stray bullet that just got out of the hospital.  I wish someone would adopt all these stray bullets--or at least spay or neuter them to help control the bullet population.  Airwalks.  That's what she's wearing.  Bronx mother admits to fatally bashing tot.  Poor tot.  Never had a chance.  Canal St.  Asians get off, hipsters get on.  Sudden turn...  I nearly fell over but I grabbed he pole just in time.  It was good aim because there were five hands on the pole already.  Comic girl is sleeping standing up.  For some reason I think everyone knows I'm writing about this subway car.  I'll stop now.  The jig is up.