Why does that sign say Canal Street?

There is a rhythm to living in the city that cannot be ignored. It's wound up and around by timing, timings, and the lack thereof. You have to stay within the boundaries of the city's space and time or you end up, as I did, three stops beyond where you should be at 7:28AM.

I still don't know what happened.

Everyday the train runs, the conductor drones on about the bombs, uh, suspicious packages or bags, which should not be kept to oneself, and you turn to the sports section of the Times to see if the Red Sox are still playing .600 ball. (They are. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's early.) Then you get off.

Except that yesterday, I got off three stops late. Not one stop. Not two. Three. Did I fall asleep?
There is this odd thing that happens to you when you get off at the wrong stop because everything looks about right. My first thought was that they had closed my usual staircase and gotten rid of the bench I sit on while waiting for the next train. They hadn't, I had been in Wonderland.

I took the uptown back to Normalville.