★★ Fog drained the colors from the distance without really obscuring the lines. Gradually it ripened or decayed into routine haze, and for a moment blue showed overhead. Then came gray-green light and soggy, shifting breezelets. The old sneakers had dried crispy from the previous day's soaking. The subway platform smelled of brakes from prior trains, the air uncirculating. Up on the street, phantom raindrops landed, a few to a block, never amounting to more.
Wednesday, June 11th, 2014
37 Polly Asks: New York Magazine Wants Me to Write Ask Polly For Them. Should I Tell Them to Piss Off?