The window was full of words.
I looked up from my magazine and saw the cascade on the tunnel walls.
The tunnels are usually dark; there’s no point in looking. But the line is under construction, so banks of lights were strung along the length of this run, illuminating the hidden markings.
It was too much. The walls were pages, filled with painted words, page after page after page.
We were on an underground ship, charting its own course: The slow sway of the train as it crept along the tracks, horn blowing ahead to warn the workers, and the lights—oh! the lights! constant and warm and bowing toward us, beckoning us through this secret passageway—did anyone else notice this?
What were those words? Yes, we all know that someone has been here, before. But still, all those words? What had happened, before?
AbsurdBeats 