After the Fun Is Over Have you ever been one of the last to leave a party? Feet are dragging their blistered soles across the confetti that's scattered, hopelessly, on a lonely dance floor. A man is passed out drunk in his broken bowl of spoiled clam chowder. People are figuring out how to control their lazy eyelids - pouting that the night is over, that they have to carry on, just a little bit longer, in order to make it home. That's exactly what the 6 train looks like on a Friday morning.