Stephen Crawford

Nowhere Slow. 9:50 pm. Waiting for the express trains to pass.

Passengers exit, some stand in the doorways, cigarette smoke drifts in with the bugs and others insects. The creeps look for girls to sit close to, the insects bang against the fluoro lights or abandon hope, dropping to the floor or down the back of my collar.

I peer into the darkness and think about the earliest known version of the necktie worn by China’s first emperor Shih Huan Ti and how ties were first brought to Japan by Mormon Missionaries as gifts to English language teachers who couldn’t afford to buy strong lengths of rope.

Catch my reflection in the window, Happy Birthday. My face ages in dog years – one year equals seven. For times like these I need a hobby, nothing too physical, a hobby to keep my mind on the little picture. Read a book, listen to music, eat, sleep. Ten minutes feels like a lifetime in Gods waiting room.

Haruda Station Fukuoka Japan.

Waiting for a train in Tenjin underground station, Japan 2008

My connecting train cuts by the coastline.  On this Monday morning commute, the view from the window offers an adventure that is not for me or the man with the briefcase.

We glance quickly at the sail boats and nearby islands as if we are looking at a woman’s cleavage or a solar eclipse, wisely looking away before the feelings of pain and waves of regret come washing over us.