"Roam"

I've spent days on end in the subway. Jumping from train to train, watching lights bleed across the windows. The gentle sway of the train would lull me into a trance, but not quite to sleep.

I've never slept in a train or in a station. I've tried, though. Something about closing my eyes in this place just doesn't feel right, as though I'd miss out on something important. Something life-changing. Considering the risks, I'd say it's insomnia looking out for me.

When I get hungry, I go to a bigger station like Fulton or Times Square and get some snacks from the vendors. There's one woman in particular -- she won't tell me her name, but she says she's from Mexico -- who sells chocolates and Frito-Lay chips. On a good day she'll give me something extra, but most of her days don't seem to be very good at all.

And Chester, the homeless guy that I ran into at Delancey-Essex -- he's told me his name, of course, but won't tell me where he's from. He's old, that's for sure, having been a tunnel rat for 40 years. He goes down to the tracks on late nights to collect anything of interest; mostly cans to turn in to the recycling plant for money, which he uses to go back into the tunnels and do it all over again.

I feel guilty for not helping enough when I have my own stable income, but no matter what I give, it seems these people prefer it as-is underground. And honestly, I have to agree.