There is the pluck and gravel of acoustic guitar, the chanteuse cracking and breaking into my ear. Underneath it all is the low thrumming rumble of footsteps in this narrow tunnel. We are packed and surging forward to the trains but ahead I can see the crowd cleaved, one man moving against the onrush. His face floats by me round and flat like a dish. He is missing one eye, the lid sunken against the bone.

I find a place on the platform to wait out this song. I sit, raise my face to the weakened, limping light, feel it stagger against the bones in my face. I clutch a paper cone of flowers to my chest. I have nothing to write on but my paycheck.