The end is near.

I'll do laundry tomorrow morning, which means the jeans will be crisp. I will say hello to the Jamaican woman in the laundromat, who will be watching talk shows and folding someone else's wash. I may have an egg on a roll while the wash spins. I'll put the whites and pants in the washer and walk home with wet shirts, then hang them on a long curtain rod. I'll check e-mail and read the paper for 30 or 40 minutes, then go back to get the rest of my clothes.

I'll return again and throw the laundry on the bed, sort and fold. I may shave my head then, angling with mirrors to smooth the back, or I may hire the barber on Court St. to trim the sides, so that I look less like a massive mutant hedgehog. Then I'll walk to the Ftrain stop and slide my Metrocard at the turnstile. After two escalators and 20 steps, I'll walk towards the back of the platform and lean against a black trashcan, where I'll watch the tracks and wait for an Ftrain. In the quiet workday afternoon, I'll have almost any seat I choose.

The train will go to 34th St, right by Macy's, and I'll step out and walk the length of the store, navigating the mess of pedestrians and perfume hawkers. I'll take a left and walk the block to Penn Station, checking the time on Madison Square Garden's LED clock.

I'll fetch my ticket by pressing numbers into a ticketing machine when I get into the station, then wait with the standing mass of others for the number 283 to be announced. I will pile onto the stairs and walk another platform to find a seat, on the left of the train, which will be only moderately crowded. From my seat I will watch the Hudson River, barely 20 feet from the tracks until Albany, when the train veers away. I will watch the water and passengers, and listen to the announcements from the ceiling. In Albany when we stop for 10 minutes I will remember an old ex-girlfriend and how I used to visit her here. I am on my way to see another ex-girlfriend, who is giving her master's piano recital. It will be excellent; she is an excellent performer. I will read books. I will be anonymous and always polite.

I'll fetch my ticket by pressing numbers into a ticketing machine when I get into the station, then wait with the standing mass of others for the number 283 to be announced. I will pile onto the stairs and walk another platform to find a seat, on the left of the train, which will be only moderately crowded. From my seat I will watch the Hudson River, barely 20 feet from the tracks until Albany, when the train veers away. I will watch the water and passengers, and listen to the announcements from the ceiling. In Albany when we stop for 10 minutes I will remember an old ex-girlfriend and how I used to visit her here. I am on my way to see another ex-girlfriend, who is giving her master's piano recital. It will be excellent; she is an excellent performer. I will read books. I will be anonymous and always polite.

The train will go to 34th St, right by Macy's, and I'll step out and walk the length of the store, navigating the mess of pedestrians and perfume hawkers. I'll take a left and walk the block to Penn Station, checking the time on Madison Square Garden's LED clock.

I'll fetch my ticket by pressing numbers into a ticketing machine when I get into the station, then wait with the standing mass of others for the number 283 to be announced. I will pile onto the stairs and walk another platform to find a seat, on the left of the train, which will be only moderately crowded. From my seat I will watch the Hudson River, barely 20 feet from the tracks until Albany, when the train veers away. I will watch the water and passengers, and listen to the announcements from the ceiling. In Albany when we stop for 10 minutes I will remember an old ex-girlfriend and how I used to visit her here. I am on my way to see another ex-girlfriend, who is giving her master's piano recital. It will be excellent; she is an excellent performer. I will read books. I will be anonymous and always polite.

I'll fetch my ticket by pressing numbers into a ticketing machine when I get into the station, then wait with the standing mass of others for the number 283 to be announced. I will pile onto the stairs and walk another platform to find a seat, on the left of the train, which will be only moderately crowded. From my seat I will watch the Hudson River, barely 20 feet from the tracks until Albany, when the train veers away. I will watch the water and passengers, and listen to the announcements from the ceiling. In Albany when we stop for 10 minutes I will remember an old ex-girlfriend and how I used to visit her here. I am on my way to see another ex-girlfriend, who is giving her master's piano recital. It will be excellent; she is an excellent performer. I will read books. I will be anonymous and always polite.