The man stares you into the corner of your morning commute. The express is unforgiving, there is no relief from his gaze as the train sweeps down the upper west side. You wish you had those white earbuds that keep everyone comatose in their mild electronica, minor Beethoven, or Steve Jobs' commencement speech bootlegged from kazaa. Just as you are about say something, he stands. The train stops, the conductor barks over the speakers, "This is 42nd street, Times Square - crossroads of the world. You can transfer here to anywhere."