Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Bad Dream, or Busy Morning?

Nervously waiting for this train to leave. The smell of piss and fast orange linger from every corner. Commuters against communes, ears against volume. The woman next to me is kniting a sweater. Was it for her daughter? Window seats often occupied with the disheartend, and synthetic. Curious eyes never seen so much out these here windows. The walls that coincide with the rails are cluttered, at best. Graffitti owns them as we own the rain. Deep, I sink back hoping I could catch a glimpse of the womans creation, my wandering eyes express a moment of distress, as she stood up at the exit and left.

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