September 11. Back from Newburgh in the evening. At Times Square, the subway stands still for half an hour. More and more people run the last steps on the platform, push their way through the doors, relieved to have made it into the train, a relief that is soon replaced by the disappointment that this subway is not moving. It’s hot; the air conditioning has little chance with the doors open. I set time limits for myself: At eleven-thirty I will get up and order an Uber, no, at eleven-forty. When I finally do, barely a minute after I stepped onto Forty-second Street, the message arrives via Twitter that the subways have started moving again. That was to be expected. From eleven-ten to eleven-forty, I could have been listening to music or reading instead of counting the minutes, but to spend these times aimlessly with myself is often more important to me in some mysterious way.