Endocytosis around a mug filled with black-hole coffee. My shivers are ingrained. I’m thinking drums not rain. Rain on corrugated roofs. Lights red like stains on the platform. A diesel engine warms the sleepers. The track is black. The cafe is lit with strip lights making green. I draw a spark of warmth from the cup but cannot thaw my fingers. My friend is four stations away. When the couple on the next bench kiss it sounds like pigs in mud.
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