The only home I know always sleeps with one eye open. Spreading its massive body over the Western plains of Long Island, with blood flowing above and below its dirty old skin. Long and silver slithering like snakes, only to vanish into the darkness below. They carry hopes and dreams, and give it life. Late at night it startles you and wakes you up. It chatters and rumbles blowing hot air through sidewalk grates into empty streets above. And then it leaves, and now only silence. You close your eyes and fall back asleep. Good night to you and the F-train below.