it's january here, and it's fucking freezing. a woman walks by me shrouded in a parka, her chin visible through the pull cords of the hood. her hands are pillows. inside the subway station people are walking quickly to the rhythm of a man beating on an empty barrel. his head is tilted down, his brow furrowed in concentration. no one looks at him; he is background, akin to the faded blue depictions of men and women wearing hats and kicking up their heels painted on the walls. New Yorkers here are not kicking up their heels. They are slamming their heels down on the pavement, they are moving forward, always, never looking back. I join the endless shuffle, transfer to the C train.