A very confused post about arrivals and transportation and the moving along on various paths and stopping.

The cabby did not seem to like me very much. Probably for extending the ride by giving him further and further destinations to bring me to. We went to Brooklyn at first, just across the Manhattan Bridge, then down Flatbush Avenue, then further and further, to Grand Army Plaza, and on and on... my nose close to the whistling window on the right hand side, looking at the lights in the beautiful villas by the park. I guess Prospect Park West might be one of my very favorite groupings of buildings to look at from a cab, at night, these days... or what do I know... always? It took probably twenty minutes to catch a cab on houston street. The night was so incredibly cold and dark and there seemed to be a change in cabbie shifts perhaps? It felt almost as if I were in a different city, one created to make me feel helpless. Massive amounts of cars, none with the light on the roof signaling availability. "Go away Witold, you should not be here, not like that and not right now." I walked against traffic, for several blocks that felt like miles, walked on the white and dirt mountains of frozen snow, on and on. My head, my hands, my feet, all slowly embracing an ever stronger frosty pain. The reason why I had to get a cab in the first place was that train fiasco, the long delayed trip, stuck in tunnels, then stations, then finally brought to a complete halt on second avenue and houston. "No passengers. No passengers. Last Stop. No Passengers. No Passengers. Last stop." I was one of the passengers, of course. As were the Polish kids in the middle of the car, a group of cursing teenagers, waving their middle fingers at whatever happened to be moving on the platform, after the doors of the train were closed, and the train was on its way out of the station. Silly. Could I in any way mention how glad I am that today is Saturday?