eleven people

Eleven people in the room, twenty two feet. The matching number of eyes and ears. Cold plumes of air exit holes in the face. A timetable announces delays. Some are listening to music, some tap toes, others talk in languages I don’t understand. Hieroglyphic voices. I can’t comprehend the sounds or the patterns. I can’t decipher it,
it could be a code.

It could be nothing. Its the not knowing that makes me nervous. Eleven people. Twenty two pairs of shoes.

Just waiting for the train to take them to the places they contractually need to be

(this is an assumption of course, some may be involved in some altruistic endeavours, some may be en route to view art in a museum, to visit a relative pin pricked by hyper dermic drips?)

never mind,

everyday I see these same faces, see them get off at the same stations and I think, where do they go when they disappear from view?

through the turnstiles, past ticket barriers, timetables on the walls, an old fireplace, empty and heat-less,

they move like somnambulist, slow and I see them everyday so I know they exists but…I see them and they turn a corner into imagination.

Do they cease to exist?

All the empirical evidence gives me faith they do exists, they are not figments of my imaginations, chimeras, willow the wisps.
They are there, just over there. Look

but they soon disappear

a foggy memory is a strange aroma staining.

The train obtains more people, the weight increase but the speed on the train isn’t impacted. We lurch out of the station.

Descriptions of the people around me, of the train, would fulfil no purpose here. I’ll set the scene and you can fill in the blanks. You’ve all been on a train, you’ve all seen people, you know what in talking about.

Scenery blurs by like smeared paint.

from the train window I see the children head towards the trees, their mouths open like coin slots

and when I get off the train, I will cease to exist.


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