Hundreds in, hundreds out. Everyday. Few words ever exchanged (if any) past the complimentary, monotonous; “Hi, how are yah?”. This cycle has gone on for years at this point. So long I’ve become numb to this not so special world we all share. It feels as if every possible life has opened that bright yellow cab door.
The existence of a cabbie. As close as you can get to being a ghost. Stepping into that cab as a passenger you hardly think twice about the thing behind the wheel. But it is there.
As abundant as the rats in this city are the piss colored carriages. All chauffeuring around the worker bees for the queen. So what does that make me?
The Invisible Man.
The Taxi Driver 