At noon today we had just finished teaching our class at Fashion Institute of Technology and were on our way to the subway entrance at Eighth Avenue and West 25th Street for the 23rd Street stop when we saw the tragic aftermath of what looked like a horrific subway accident.
Some people in the crowd said a person was hit by a train, and we saw firefighters and paramedics bring up someone on a stretcher, transfer the person to a wheeled cart, where some began the movements of CPR and hustled the person into an ambulance.
There were dozens of fire trucks and other vehicles, a couple of ambulances, and several police cars, along with many, many first responders.
They all looked grim. What a horror, whatever happened. We haven't been able to see anything anything about it on the news.
An old woman with a granny cart came over and said, "You're taking pictures of this? You should be ashamed of yourself!" We said nothing and walked to Sixth Avenue, where the A, C and E trains had been rerouted.
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UPDATE:
Gothamist said the person died, that it may have been a suicide. Very sad.
Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate; people feeling the impossibility of reaching the centre which, mystically, evaded them; closeness drew apart; rapture faded, one was alone. There was an embrace in death.
Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway
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