They're all leaving as I arrive. He sits, alone, near the smallest pane of plastic. He looks at me, noting the distinct contrast, all the while knowing he only has one more stop. Two more sit down on the lower platform and spark up a cross aisle conversation. They're all wearing winter caps, reminding me of my full exposed scalp. She cries, over and over again. At first I think no one else can hear her. I study the portrait of their eyes. A glimmer. An age. A french word I don't know. I knew that they heard it in every vein. I knew they've heard it so long now it just lives as a white noise in their lives. Columbia, next stop.
Underneath modern day obelisks, they all stand alone at arms length.
*This went on for six more paragraphs, now lost in technology*
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