"And there goes my dream too, flitting away like a butterfly from an inattentive net."
The bricks of the train station shined, snuggled between layers of glowing white mortar. The white speckles in the black granite floors glistened like stars in the sky as a herd of feet in freshly shined black leather shoes clapped against it. Many feet's legs wore black, crisply pleated slacks. But there were two new leather-clad feet in the herd, their legs, torso, arms and head wearing the same clothes and thoughts as the rest. The thoughts of the men whizzed through the air, bouncing and bumbling like electrons, and the addition of the new man's was utterly insignificant.
Day after the day, the men returned, the new man becoming a part of them, in the eight and six o'clock rush. But day after day the shoes scuffed, and day after day, the crispness relaxed. Finally, the bustle fell to an occasional trickle of shiny leather. The outside was worn by wind and rain and hungry masses. When the surge finally returned, the feet wore tall, green, rubber soled boots, tied tightly with green twine laces. Their thoughts were quiet and swollen stumbling through the air. And the rush did not return at six o'clock.
When the former newcomer finally returned, A woman whose skirt covered her feet waited, limply cradling a child in her arms. He hopped into sight, wearing only one combat boot, the leg of his uniform pinned just above the knee. "Your leg!" the woman called to him, her voice cracking. The man tread towards her, carefully measuring each step. He set his crutches down carefully on the scuffed, dull floor, and leaned against the crumbly brick wall. He opened his mouth to speak, but the woman sat the child on her hip, turned, and walked out.
The man spoke, not to her, but rather to the place itself. He told the once glimmering train station, "And there goes my dream too, flitting away like a butterfly from an inattentive net."