It might be the thick air, or maybe the somehow more quiet morning that mix things up again, the visible and the not so visible perhaps?

Broadway looks so very empty this morning. There are even parking spaces available on the freshly rain washed "great white way". We are further uptown, where tourists usually arrive in loud speaking red double decker busses and it is the day after the day of the happily exploding sky and other joyful celebrations. It is monday and it is a workday, but seemingly only for those who do not get wear the very white collars, those that do not even have blue stamps on them. And so the rush to the subway reminds me a bit of the mornings of my childhood in Poland. Groups of men with their eyes glowing from behind what looked like overly dense black mascara, would be returning from the nightshift at the mine. By the time I would be outside, those from the early shift would have already left, quietly, with their freshly prepared sandwiches wrapped into cheap wax paper. They would not only sacrifice the day, just as the nightshift had just sacrifice the night, but sacrifice it in a milder version of hell, tearing out black rocks straight from the soil, thousands of feet below the earth's surface. The people I see going for the subway stop might not be on their way to an underground pit, but their outfits and even the tempo with which they move their variety of bodies somehow makes me know that they did not just wake up in one of the penthouses around here. Or maybe some did. Maybe I am getting it all wrong. Maybe it is just the chirping of sparrows through the thickly gray air mixed with the distant sound of train-wheels on some far and invisible railroad tracks that trigger the memories. I think I will just get out of the house now, and I will walk uptown. Maybe this will somehow clean at least parts of my forehead, which is still glued together to one cushion of sleepy semi-thought. Hello fifth of July.