Backs of heads, vacant eyes. Blank expressions, the occasional yawn. The open window, permitting noxious fumes from the platform to enter the stuffy carriage. Each pair of seats occupied by some obnoxious businessman with the compulsory unpalatable sweat patches seeping from under their lackluster off-white polyester blend shirts. Their thighs, deformed by various combinations of Blackberries, wallets and keys to their dull little offices at huge city corporations, bulging from within their constraining pockets.

Seats vacated, impressions left of the plus-sized rears previously parked there, unsightly, glossy globs of gum left, stuck on every surface, each handle contaminated with a film of grime, left by the thousands of hands, brushing by each hour.

Rain outside, flies into the asphyixiating carriage; cool in the dense jungle. A single drop runs down the beige, moulded plastic walls, a tear for each of these men, the wall remains unsympathetic.

Eyes wander. Meticulously assessing each crevice for rhyme and reason, as to why they became a feature of this trundling train. Did the vents ever work? Clogged by that elusive, self generating dust, deeming them useless.

A map. The map. Its tracks, coloured spaghetti, each dot marking the spot at which you could leave this ever trundling train and start a new life, step over the black gap and into your newer, shinier, brighter life.

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