the subway.

The urban snare drums, playing a roll faster than any human hands could ever manage, hypnotize me as I stare out of windows, jet black. We're each here, none of us too close to the other, in our own little worlds. With our own stories, own schedules, own ways of life. We do have one thing in common, though: It's early morning and most of us wish that we didn't have to venture out before the sun. I feel groggy as I sway back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, listening to the pitches of the rails beneath me changing, like a sea. It's as if I'm on some sort of strange pirate ship. The air inside of the cabin smells like that cold, chill-you-to-the-bone, November rain. And each person looks like a November rain victim, just as they should, hats and hoods pulled over eyes and ears, puddles of acidic water pooled around each sole that's been forced by gravity to rest on the grimy floor. What are these floors even made of? I can still taste the morning's coffee in my mouth, hazelnut, but unfortunately, its warmth has disappeared. I find it strange to be sitting in one place and to be moving at the same time. It seems so unnatural, just like this seat which makes my spine feel as if it's being carved apart, piece by piece, by a thousand knives, perhaps resulting in some sort of vertebrae totem pole. I find myself longing for the screeching noises, for they signal stops, and a moment to softly close my eyes and get some semi-quiet rest. It's not really rest at all. It doesn't take long, though, for those snare drums to pick up again, and for me to find myself back inside of the captain's cabin, longing for still, dry land. When my stop comes, I get off. Don't worry. I'll be back around 5 o'clock.