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The Pink Elephant

A sticky mess by the side of the track. The sun high, the clouds low. Steam rises like wavering ghosts reaching up from the ground. Sepia tones saturate, obscuring the sharp lines and loud colours of the urban sprawl. Crushed cans, faded cigarette butts, plastic, paper and an array of other unidentifiable objects carelessly discarded, fated to a graveyard of dirty grey stones. The platform a shuffle of tired commuters. Here, a suitcase in hand and a paper tucked under the arm. Here, a somber-faced woman alone with her ipod. Here, two schoolgirls looking ruffled and hurried.
This train window; I stare out through scratches and fingerprints. The carriage around me; humming and hushing in the afternoon hues. Patrons stiff and upright in their small spaces, nervously avoiding the eyes of one another. The tick-tick of the air-conditioning, a light coolness overhead. I sit, tight to the wall, breath caught deep inside, wide eyes, wondering – Does anyone else see that!?

Jesse Brjoz.