The flickering of the florescent lights and the stench of human existence is almost nauseating. Despite the late hour, there is still an active nightlife going on below the streets of New York as well as above. I keep away from the milling human zombies that darkness has drawn out from whatever hole they hide in during the day, pressing my back against the far wall as I wait for the next train to show up. In a recessed alcove, a couple thugs are shaking down some guy that was foolish enough to be picked off from the herd. I know I’m not the only one that sees the crime in progress, but they care about as much as I do and do nothing about it. I’m sure it’s largely based on the fear of becoming a victim themselves, but it goes deeper than that. Humanity has become inured to violence, noticing and caring only when it happens to them or someone they care about. Or whenever the television tells them they should care like when a pretty little white girl goes missing. I have no fear of these pathetic parasites but I still do not intercede.
