Dresden hung around the Tsukuyomi Line, breakdancing on a floor of flattened cardboard sheets. His feet fly landing on the cardboard floor for a moment before alternating movements. The first time he had been into a tunnel, the songs of Teruko Akatsuki got farther behind the speaker on his radio and the sounds of Bosozoku bikes became a monsterous roar as a light approached him, the lights blot away the outside world. He was always light on his feet. The techno music continued its trill as metallic rings sounded and public regulator announcements provided a filler in between each train arrival. He liked the constant movement of the station and the millions of faces he can captivate for just a second before they slip back into their morning commute or whatever far flung destination they would be. Their destinations seemed as simple to him as those advertisements with silver frames along the concourse wall. Only when the train arrives, does the station start to feel heavy placating a mass that wasn't there before. He only does a quick leg cross, his eyes only half open to the now disappearing crowd. The dots on the monitor change their positions to reflect the time. It is in the empty dots where his reflection forms under the shelter of the 7.
YOU ARE READING
concourse
Short Storyphotographs and snapshots are all that remain in the urban square, haunted in geometric designs now almost without reason, no baroque pedestal that upheld severed marble heads. only forming ledges to compose stairs and boxes containing soil. somehow...
