When you are in the subway at night, in New York City, there is a quietness that cannot be shaken. Despite the fact it is only eleven thirty, all the sounds are muted, like with the last train went all the life. Even when the trains are clanking by, and you can hear the cars overhead, and there are people all around you, it is quiet. Even when you can hear the Indian girl's rap-rock music drifting through her headphones from two yards away, this is a quiet that remains. Even when the law-firm intern walks by, with his polished shoes clacking against the linoleum floors, there is a silence that stays. Even when you can hear the drunken laughter from the seventeen year old boys, drowsy with their first joints, you can't hear anything at all. It is not an unsettling quiet, yet not exactly peaceful either. And it is not something you you notice at first, this quiet. It is something gradual, that you notice after minutes of just sitting there, and you just feel it sitting there with you. And you don't mind, because the silence keeps you company, as you wait for the loud train to roll in, to take you back home. And that is what you feel, in the subway at night.