The station

You sit down, resting yourself on a worn bench. Its poor design pushes into you. Despite the discomfort you stay. You keep your head down, looking at the bench. Seeing the scratches and chipped paint on it your mind wonders off and imagines how something once new had degraded to such an eye sore.

The morning air is still and crisp. The light of the slowly rising sun stretches shadows across the dew drenched grass that struggles to grow through the constructions of men. The light above you flickers a few times, it remains on though, lighting up only itself as the brightness of the sun hides what ever light it manages to squeeze out.

The squealing brakes of the train in the distance catch your attention, you look up. A person stands in your view of the train, you look back down as if you had not moved. The graffitied train drags itself into the station. The breeze created by the train brushes against your face, waking you from your thoughts. With a sigh, that could hardly be noticed, you stand to your feet and walk into the train.