Every cloudy morning I succumb to a few notes of Mozart or Schubert while I quietly drown amidst a sea of faces. A few centimeters separate my drenched coat from a myriad of neighboring scarves, coats and spectacles. I inhale the vagabond thoughts, memories and and desires that endlessely float and echo between the open window pains of another delayed train to Piccadilly Station. Gloves, wool hats, the daily Metro newspaper, Ipods, and a few text messages create a whirlwind of solitude and confusion on another Monday morning. Restrained eyes glue themselves to the latest news while the occasional decibels escape from my neighbor’s Ipod into the crisp November air. Eye contact between morning Mancunians is a rare occurrence, one which might necessitate more than a few drops of caffeine. Nevertheless, my stubborn pupils dance and ingest the morning view towards the Pennines while my mouth barely contains a hidden smile. What do those spectacles see every morning? What hidden passions hide beneath the red scarf? What desires are held between the pages of that journal? Will that hand someday reveal the cure to cancer? Will that black portfolio contain tomorrow’s greatest revelation? Does that yellow hat hide poetry every morning?
Final destination – Piccadilly Station – another day begins.

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