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Platform numbers are late coming up, and in the midsummer dawn outside half a day seems to have gone by already – hence, probably, people rush around and enquire track numbers of perfect strangers (dedicated staff is a few steps away – too far!) or of this pink-shirted man, somewhat plump, those are sweat stains from yesterday or the day before, his hair slicked back, who walks up and down the station in pool sandals and helps out, his services now to a woman complaining in three languages before she gets the right one that, !!They moved track 7!! His being busy looks like he could genuinely solve the problem of homelessness, once and for all, because we all smelled what it’s like to be homeless coming up from the subway below and only ground Arabica at the 24/7 café could sniff that away. That, was only 2 and a half minutes ago.


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Let go. Strands of barbed wire cover the stone angels that had once custody over the land, rusty the former and moss-eaten the latter. It was a villa and now a park, locked, no one knows why. Somebody coughs, while the sun begins to shine through non-existent clouds and the murky glass of the window, and the puffs of smoke of some electronic cigarette – surprised passengers didn’t know it was allowed (“It probably isn’t!”) – there’s a funny sketch on a girl’s Youtube channel and she’s not aware of the man behind her sneezing without covering his nose, or of the Judy Dench lookalike who just got on. She looks around – she knows she resembles a celebrity – then takes her seat, waits. Nothing worse than a terrible impersonation, and she fits into the role splendidly. You can hear a round of applause from the girl’s earbuds, when JD gets up, off, and walks ahead into her ordinary day.