The dreaded Crawl. Everyone knows The Crawl that some trains must pass through. Sometimes you know it so well, you’re so used to where it likes to lurk, that you see it coming before you’re even there. And The Crawl is a place. In The Crawl time has no meaning, motion removes itself inconspicuously and time becomes both too fast and too slow. So without time to locate it, it can’t be an event, but a place. In the sub-municipality of The Crawl headaches and yawns are born. There are certain laws in Crawl, strictly enforced: not even the happy should be smiling, physically expressed exasperation is required from at least one passenger every 3 minutes, every instance of The Crawl must feel longer than the last. From inside The Crawl the rest of the world, in its opulence of freedom and unfelt time, is the enemy, and you would die for the municipality of the Crawl while cursing it simply fueled by hatred. The Crawl is the claustrophobia of movement. The Crawl insists that the inner-ear is connected to the breathing passageways, insists on motion and not enclosure, and insists on the fact that when the Situationists said “Live without dead time,” they were a bunch of assholes for assuming it was up to the self. The Crawl is the stick pushing up along the back of your throat and you live with it or you do not live in this city.