Writing » Hassle

The train tracks are barbecued black, ancient velvet soot.

Bodies always exert their presence, whether pushed against you, colliding, or from afar, where they say "I'm coming that way, get the hell away from me". The outlines of people at the station seem darker against the pallid strip lighting that pools in the arched ceiling. Commotion at the gates sounds like a battle field; clashing shields and armour, rushing, charging, barriers snapping back and forth, clamping and releasing. The air is thick and warm with flavours of oil and mechanical things. It comes at you suddenly in a rush of wind down the tunnel as one train passes (that man-made weather phenomenon). In the tunnels you loose perceptions; distance, up, down, entering a dreamlike experience. Pressed through the tunnels like a hamster, a sign, another sign, suddenly hoisted up.