6:06 A.M., a man, mid-forties, who looks just like J. B. Smoove twelve years ago, blasting Alicia Keys’s “If I Ain’t Got You” and smiling.

2:36 P.M., a woman, early twenties, applying makeup, phone on the seat next to her playing Beyoncé’s “Irreplaceable.”

5:05 P.M., a man, mid-thirties, slight, with Middlemarch in his lap, watching lip-sync videos on TikTok.

5:25 P.M., a nurse, late twenties, in full scrubs, standing in the middle of a packed train watching And Just Like That . . ., full volume.

2:28 A.M., a man, twenties, work clothes, the cheap, irregular DING DING DING of a mobile game with in-app purchases.

8:17 A.M., a withered man, mid-sixties, watching something in Persian, every few minutes croaking, “Heh. Heh heh. Heh heh,” like sandpaper.

9:06 A.M., a woman, early forties, pantsuit, sweating, on speakerphone with a very heated lawyer.

11:12 P.M., a couple, both early thirties, leaning into one another, watching a YouTube video about rescue dogs.

8:55 A.M., a harried woman, late thirties, herding a flock of children, holding out the phone like a platter, playing manic, clinking children’s music I can’t recognize. It cuts suddenly to an ad: CAN’T FALL ASLEEP? USE WHITE NOISE TO HELP RELAX. TRY BROWN NOISE. TRY BLUE NOISE. TRY GREEN NOISE. TRY GRAY—

11:48 P.M., a very thin man, forties, the kind of addict Midwesterners imagine have taken over every car, “Confessions Part II” by Usher.

9:12 A.M., the same couple as before, both early thirties. She is watching a Twitch streamer play Baldur’s Gate; he is looking out the window at the Triborough Bridge. It’s quiet, but I hear the streamer say, “What is this? What is this?”

5:15 P.M., a small Hispanic grandma, early seventies, wearing a home-care nursing smock, watching an old episode of La Otra.

3:34 P.M., a gaggle of teenagers, sixteen or seventeen years old, huddled in a circle. Silence, then six seconds of what is obviously pornography, gasps, laughter, silence.

4:10 P.M., a serene young woman, mid-twenties, watching Zohran reels.

1:18 A.M., two women, early twenties, “jealousy, jealousy,” by Olivia Rodrigo. They’re singing along.

9:37 P.M., a man, mid-forties in a suit, top buttons open, an Instagram story with girls shrieking, laughing.

10:02 A.M., a beautiful Haitian man, mid-twenties, blasting Supa Denot. An older man approaches him: “What is that? Rap? Hello? What is that? French?” “Creole,” the first man says. “Fantastic!” says the old man. “Fantastique!”

5:12 P.M., a child, eight or nine, striped shirt, watching a video that’s playing too softly for me to hear. Then: USE WHITE NOISE TO HELP RELAX. TRY BROWN NOISE, TRY BLUE—

11:12 A.M., a frowning woman, fifties, listening to what I believe is a television show, but at the conclusion of a long, dramatic monologue in Spanish, she lifts her phone, says, “No,” and hangs up.

7:24 P.M., a man, early thirties, from that couple, holding the phone very close to his ear, but I can hear it’s Lana Del Rey, “White Mustang.”

2:10 P.M., a very tall man, mid-twenties, E.D.M. so intense that the plastic seats are vibrating.

6:17 A.M., a woman, early thirties, excellent posture, “Who’s Crying Now” by Journey.

3:33 P.M., two teenagers, fifteen or so, a video of a room chanting, “Hare Krishna.” One of them says, “This isn’t Jonestown. Hare Rama. Hare Hare.”

9:46 P.M., two men, one early twenties, tank top, one late teens, denim jacket, on opposite sides of the train. One plays “Bloodline” by Slayer. The other plays electrocumbia. They do not look at one another, but when one gets off, the other turns his music off.

8:11 A.M., a Greek woman, mid-fifties, screaming into the phone over the tiny sound of crying.

6:12 P.M., a man, fifties, perfectly round in a three-piece suit, eyes squeezed shut, a podcast of the Alan Watts disciple Alberto Caiero intoning, “You must split from yourself to join with the world. You must return to yourself when the world falls awa—” CAN’T RELAX? USE WHITE NOISE—

7:06 P.M., a child, eight or nine, striped shirt, listening to the sounds of island birds.

5:11 P.M., a man, early twenties, a would-be dancer rocking M.J.’s “Bad” from a boombox. But the train is too crowded; he just bobs his head and smiles.

10:34 A.M., a man, late twenties, More Fish, Ghostface Killah, no skips.

4:54 P.M., a child, twelve or so, gripped and playing, the tiny sound of fake machine guns firing.

9:33 A.M., a man, mid-twenties, TikTok videos about side hustles.

11:23 P.M., a man, mid-thirties, YouTube videos about how video games are woke now.

8:02 P.M., seven or eight different songs all at once. I can’t make them out. Nobody looks anybody in the eye.

9:10 A.M., a woman, late fifties, YouTube video of a news story describing a riot.

11:37 P.M., a woman, mid-forties, eyes closed, listening to white noise, then green noise, then brown noise, then gray noise, then blue.

9:06 A.M., a man, familiar, early thirties, and a woman, late twenties, new, leaning into one another, watching reels from a cat rescue on his phone, free hand drifting, distracted.

6:15 P.M., a man, late thirties, dusty from labor, holding his phone to his ear: PROCEED TO THE ROUTE. PROCEED TO THE ROUTE. PROCEED—

10:10 P.M., a striped shirt, sized for a child, folded neatly on the seat with a phone atop it, the songs of island birds.

10:10 A.M., a man, fifties, in a three-piece suit, eyes shut, rail thin. Caeiro says, “You may believe the inconsiderate do not believe that others matter. The truth is that they do not believe that they do. They may act like you’re invisible. In reality, they do not believe that anybody can see them. You think they do not care about you. They believe nobody cares about them.”

8:56 P.M., a frail woman, early eighties. Silence, then the emergency alarm broadcast warble, very loud. I look up and she’s laughing.

5:10 P.M., a man, mid-twenties, “In Da Club,” 50 Cent. He’s vibing.

7:00 A.M., a full train, thirty people at least, and every phone is humming its own noise. White noise, brown noise, blue noise, gray noise, green noise, red, and yellow: a static hymn to a very chilled-out God. After Queensboro Plaza, we descend into a tunnel under the East River. The lights go out and reception is lost and when we pull up at the Lexington Avenue station in Manhattan, the train is empty and silent and bright.