UNTITLED by CHRISTOPHER LANGE
The car was empty, save for myself and three or four others, silently sitting as we thundered through the subterranean spider’s web that makes up the subway system. It was getting late, and as we pulled out of a station somewhere in Brooklyn, an express train on the adjacent track matched our speed.
I slowly raised the camera to my eye, thumbing the advance into position, should I find it necessary to expose more than one frame. The shutter’s whisper was heard by no one, and, confident that the image was the one I wanted, I placed the camera back on my knee, listlessly jostling around as per the movements of the train.