I arrive at the station and notice my next train is in 20 minutes. I realise I don’t have to rush down the steps with my bike. a woman is washing the steps she tells me to take the elevator I suppose I hear an echo in her voice, how many times has she repeated those same soapy words, how many times has she washed all those footsteps away? The other people on the platform are flipping through their phones, sharing everything but sharing nothing with each other. Did we use to speak or just move around? on the bench next to me a woman sits down says hello The bench is metal, made of lots of tiny holes. It’s cold against my back and reminds me of the winter in England. I think about sitting next to red hot radiators. I remember her bedroom and the wooden floor. Perhaps it seems strange to everyone else that I’m writing with a pencil in my notebook. The woman next to me is reading. Perhaps no-one cares. 3 pigeons walk around my feet one of my shoes is broken Through the almost silence a train pours past without stopping. Fast. Really fast. I feel afraid that the back draft may suck me right onto the track. After, the recorded voice tells us to be careful when boarding and getting off the trains, that we don’t fall into the gap. I like her accent although the volume is a little too high.
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The unique solitude of stations .The question "going where and does anyone care?" hangs in the air Very atmospheric .. nice one Marc .
Very good Marc