Kettle breath windows are blind white. Each station tips passengers into the carriage, they wear clothes sewn from cigarette smoke and rain. The bloke next to me has thighs like filing cabinets. I know where I am by the sound of the track but I am no longer a commuter, there’s no office at the end of this run. You are not a laptop but you are in my lap. We are impostors, the wrong shape for this journey, a man with a baby asleep.
– Benjamin F Jones
