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Dirty rivulets, musty seats, bump and hum, old air rank with crisps. Sliding doors at platform stops, muted faces jostling for position. Old women beside me chattering. Angry baby in front. A young man texting his girlfiend, another loudly talking to his mate in the aisle opposite.
Blue earphones - tune it out. Think. Read. T.S Eliot Wasteland and Numan/Fenton So Many Bodies. Countryside rolling - rail rattle and clack. Tattered trees, tawny light - Neroche whistling and the Psyche of Massive Attack.
Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Underground steps and chrome turnstiles. Gritty climb, blush and blonde puddle leaves Dappled water shadows outside Marine Building, here once again.
More new faces, new styles, pained looks. Clenched stomach - get in, get done, get out. Like visiting a brothel rather than a university. Drawn nights wrapped around a platform. Crammed and standing - track stretching out in front. Tune it out, tune it all out - again.
