5.36am

the train is a public library, the books both open and closed. the pages glimmer with the events of the night (tonight), flipping through we find remnants of yesterday. bleeding words, in the library we mantain our silence – yet, the crowd is noisy. in a chromatic cacophony i hear a thousand voices in a story-telling symphony – yet, the crowd is noisy. through the opened books i read my life in a varied pitch, and theirs in the most monotone i can.

and though some books are closed, there are other ways to read someone’s soul.

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