Strange fantasy while I’m meditating on the train, as we pull through the Christie and Bathurst stations. That as my eyes are closed she will quietly alight on the seat next to me, that when I open my eyes she will laugh, impishly, somehow like we have both been discovered, and say hello. That will never happen. Then I imagine that because I felt that so powerfully she will be on the train with me: she has seen me through the window, seated, with my eyes closed, and avoided my car. But when we both get off at St. George I will spot her in the crowd, she will hurry away, I will grab her roughly by the arm, like a nineteenth century country gentleman—rough, vulgar—and wheel her around. “Who are you running from? Isn’t running just another kind of love?” It isn’t, of course. I am instead like a character from Nightwood, wrestling with the melodrama of all of these frustrated passions, haunted and haunting, as I make my way through the subterranean rail system alone.