As we ride the uptown 6-train, we peer through the window to catch a glimpse of the dead station at 18th Street. A friend once went by foot through the tunnels to this station and described finding there among the abandoned gates and pillars irrefutable evidence of human habitation: a doll’s shoe, a pornography magazine and a pillow. How we envied him, to witness firsthand such haunted, architectural ruins! But this was years ago and he, too, is now dead. As for us, we are less inclined to such literal discovery; far better, it seems as we pass by, to imagine him there as if on a quiet oasis, taking stock of life as it hurtles forward without him.