Always the great element of passage. Someone cuts in front of you in line. A woman hurries down the road, her hair abloom in the rain. A lit cigarette skitters onto the asphalt from a moving car, scattering sparks. Your face in profile at night, precious in the shadows, when you turn and mouth something I pretend to hear over the roar of a train pulling into the station, through the bright windows we see the people rising from their seats.

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