YOU CAN HEAR the subway rumbling under the psych ward. I’m not sure which train; the hospital’s around 33rd Street and 1st, so it must be near the water. Smoke curls up from a large vat across the courtyard, luminous in the blue night. The hospital rises like a factory surrounding all four sides of a small green garden. Across the way in the hundreds of blinking windows, you can see old folks in seafoam green gowns. Maybe it’s the NQRW—the yellow line, as some people say. I think that’s silly, but then again maybe that’s upholding the primacy of language over the visual.
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