On the platform, I watch the passing of planes; straight, white plumes quartering the bright cold sky. What do you find at the crossing points, where X marks the spot? Nothing, of course, as the intersections are only perceived as we watch the heavens in two dimensions. Those paths may never come close to crossing. Whenever I see two planes in the sky at once, curving languidly overhead, I like to imagine they're running on wheels around the inner surface of a huge ball of glass, spinning like those daredevil motorbikes that dance round spherical cages and stick two fingers up to gravity.
In the windows of the slowing train, I watch my reflection. My great coat billows gently around me and my hair is clumped sideways across my head, it's getting quite long and is a bit of a mess. I stand, mirrored, staring into myself, before I'm brutally dissected by the opening doors.
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