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.

A rare splash of light and colour, then back into familiar darkness, guided on my journey home by the distant glow of the next vending machine.