The coming and going of trains.
A train arriving at an empty platform, coming to a complete stop. The agitated thoughts of the men and women on the other side, waiting in a thick crowd. Turning their heads and watching the slow blossoming of orange light on the tunnel walls.
Coming up the wrong flight of stairs. Wrestling with your own labyrinths, in your head. A couple pressed against a pillar. The boy leaning into the girl; being pushed away as the train comes and people gather from below. Far down the platform, the hesitant tenderness of a woman that you know existed, but is now dead.
The wrong stairs leading to the wrong train, waiting again. Benches that billow out of patterns of white and orange, white and orange. You sit down. A man comes and sits at the far end of the platform. The empty tunnel groans. A woman comes and sits at your bench. The tunnel stirs like the snorting and pawing of some terrible beast. Waiting for it to come out. The restless sounds of its struggling, pawing; thinking how calm we wait for our own deaths.