You make a decision on the paper you pick up. The train is two minutes away; the platform is approaching full. People mill about but all you can really see are two train tracks heading off into a distance. Two parallel lines. There’s someone talking loudly into Nokia handset, moving the microphone closer to their clacking jaws so that it gets a full blast. There’s a decision hanging in the air. You can’t deal with the bus wankers. You dont like your new bag. You’re burdened by the pointless guilt of it all. You turn to page ten and there’s a review of a new restaurant where the wine costs as much as the shoes you’re wearing. You ponder the levels of guilt, guilt by association. You know that the train will be full when it arrives. That much, you cling to. These things, you cling to, the fabric of a life. Threadbare, waiting for reupholstering, furniture skeletons making silhouettes in the varying light of variable days. By accumulation, the sum of our parts is revealed.
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