March 7, 2024:

"Sorry!" Large woman with larger e-bike, subtly but not egregiously invades my space. We're fine. I have feet which move.

Old Town. The teens with colored hair, and a remarkably odd recruiting poster for the Navy Reserve. A woman with a camera steps from a blue-outlined spacetime portal in the shape of a crucifix. The portal, not the woman. Either way: Huh?

Stupidly I brought a very fat volume which I'd already nearly finished. Final pages on the train, now doomed to carry the thing to no useful purpose. That, plus 40 minutes early for coffee. Like everyone I have my phone.

March 6, 2024:

Transit worker on the platform. Orange vest, orange mirror shades, zebra daypack. Projecting attitude over her sizable paunch.

Johnny Slouching Pasture with scruffy goatee and shades. Phone, camo fatigues, angry incel attitude. The world owes him a buzz he has not yet received.

Hipster fail: his t-shirt reads "Trouble Makers Club". Nobody with one dreadlock has ever made trouble, except perhaps for waiters.

March 5, 2024:

Tina Tats with long yellow braid, changes her mind, changes direction, walks past me and back, smiling and walking. Althusser would call this a missed encounter.

Houses on the hilltop. I had a roommate from there, years before the trolley existed. Entitled to other people's money, as it turned out. And their Beatles picture singles.

Condos condos condos. I remark them every time. Condos where there once were canyons, or hillsides. They didn't make the roads any wider, nor the sewer lines. Nowadays the people live in condos, work in biotech. Nowadays I'm not that far removed.