"Do you ever see a gallon of paint and you just wanna drink it?", thing is, I knew exactly what she meant. And yes, I had. It always looks so creamy and delicious. Too bad its paint. I was in between drags off an oddly shaped Malcolm Gladwell book when the cabbie asked me, "red sedan?" I had no idea what he was saying. And me saying "Excuse me?" only made him speak louder, not clearer. "Red Sedan!?", he asked adamantly. "RED SEDAN!", again. Me, I go "WHAT?!" Finally I realize he's saying, or trying to say, "Amsterdam" as in Amsterdam Avenue. "No", I said, "...between Broadway and Columbus." He just nodded his head and we collectively forgot about the confusing crimson chariot causing all the commotion. I started thinking about boxes inside boxes inside boxes and felt claustrophobic. Buried alive. Like the time we were in The Channel Tunnel. Inside a bunk inside a bus inside a train inside a tunnel 250 feet beneath the Strait of Dover. Talk about a Russian Doll. Who would even know where or how to find us? Where would they start digging? Just then I woke up outside the The Morgan Library and it was time to go.