haha writing dumpground

don't mind the platform gap

I hear my fellow commuters with their computers shuffling their wet shoes across the grainy floor. I hear the sound of people gushing in and out of dripping doors. I could not hear the pitter-patter on the cabin top but I felt the works of it all the same. It's not very pleasant but that's not what I feel like talking about today.

Even in that crowd it felt like I had no company, like I was alone. But I can't say that pretending as if the night was dead. The night was not dead. The night was alive. It was alive and awake. Everything was busy and noisy (though sometimes they were set on silent) and vibrant (or vibrate). Notifications streamed in from everywhere and to everywhere. They came with friends called flickering lights in the dead the of dark like fireworks, laser pointers and flashlights. What was this contraption built for? It's for connecting and robot things? It's hard to see. The lights get a bit too bright sometimes. Maybe what we think we see is up to us to imagine but I think sometimes the night still needs its sleep.

I hear eleven beeps I really don't think I should be bored enough to count. The doors make their standard whoosh sound that misaccounts for how fast they actually close (honestly, not very). There is a person diagonally in front of me and is taller than me. He was too young for a white collar but too old for diapers. My view could be a pleasant-er one out of the window that was trailed by streetlights, but I was wedged in the middle of a tuna can for a train. At least, in his hands was a phone I could read off comfortably thanks to the screen's size. He is on a platform but it does not involve train tracks. Nonetheless, I know for a fact that the things we say can sometimes end in a trainwreck. I've seen it before. But sometimes, they end up in an eyeopening trip with interesting sights and magical experiences. Maybe more than one adventure to come. There is a dual-toned conversation on the screen that would reflect his face if it had not been ignited. The words in the form of text spoke for themselves as if the users using them to communicate. Each letter like a seed flowering into something sweet. They bloom into the fruit of our labour we do of selecting the right, sometimes wrong, vocabulary we use. This was a familiar language, that was also used by not-so-familiar people. The train stops. He ends his sentence with a fullstop as well before elegantly tracing his phone back into his pocket, where it would hopefully reside for the rest of the time he was out when it was not in use.

There are loads of people with their respective storage devices amongst us. They slip their information filled metal inventions back into their pockets. They slip words and memories back into their pockets.

But a naked man fears no pickpockets.

Humans are funny. I wonder how my friends are doing. It's weird how sometimes these devices work like first-aid kids and other times, they're like baggage. And I think about what pickpockets want and why they do the things they do. I still wonder how my friends are doing. And I guess things can get stolen, but that does not necessarily mean that they are lost. Well, not all of them, at least.