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May 25, 2007
At Broadway subway station, in the shallow canal between the tracks of the G train, a sluggish, shit-coloured effluence trickles constantly towards Greenpoint and Queens. Brooklyn is an incontinent borough. The animated ash clumps of hump-backed rats dodge the rapids as they duck under the rails and play chicken with the incoming trains. I play my own version of the game; idling along the pimpled yellow platform edge, stepping between flecks of human spit spattered along the surface like glutinous shreds of shattered jellyfish, waiting to feel the stale breath on my neck before turning and stepping back.