"Im going underground," says the Invisible Man. That's where the existentialists live. That's where the squatters who get kicked out of their buildings downtown live.
Tracks run like veins and arteries beneath the skin of the city. We disappear like ants into holes in the ground. We get into trains called subways. We've all got the Subterannean Homesick Blues. Am I blue for you?
My veins look blue in my wrist. I like that.