Dear Diary:
Have you ever been one of the last to leave a party?
Feet are dragging their blistered soles across the confetti that’s scattered, hopelessly, on a lonely dance floor.
A man is passed out drunk in his broken bowl of spoiled clam chowder.
People are figuring out how to control their lazy eyelids â€" pouting that the night is over, that they have to carry on, just a little bit longer, in order to make it home.
That’s exactly what the 6 train looks like on a Friday morning.
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