When I stand on the subway platform and wait for the train to come, I half-expect that what will come for me will not be a real train at all, but some phantom-train whose windows glow with mysterious light and does not follow any earthy subway route. Sometimes I envision this train as being filled with people from my past, people who took their own separate trains out of my life. This train rushes past, rustling my hair as it speeds by but leaving no trace. Sometimes the train is filled with rows of empty seats. This one stops, its doors open, and it stands in the station expectantly.
I don't think I will get on this train. I just want to be taken home.
Why am I always writing about the subway? Answer me this.