They always look at you funny when you have a guitar slung over your back with no case. I think they're just in awe of how awesome it looks. These guys let me take it on, so after shuffling past people in the aisle and waiting for a lady to spend forever sorting her bag, I find two empty seats and make sure she's (the guitar) seatbelted comfortably in beside me. The "in-flight" movie is Tron, (soundtrack by Daft Punk). There is a toilet, but no one will use it.
After a mid morning transfer to a train, I settle down again, reading occasionally, dosing fitfully. I've been travelling for 24 hours now, awake for about 30, and have the sharp situational awareness that only comes from sleep deprivation. Rustling bags arouse attention. Voices in conversation, voices in urgency, voices blending together. A clock flicks another number on a platform. An inspector ambled past.
The weather has been dank for a few days and there's a misty blanket of rain across the countryside that makes the mountains farther away look like ghosts. Water trickels down the window, dragged backward by the speed of the train. Under the rain, everything green nearby looks greener, browns darker. The roads reflect the sky and shapes.
I am passenger 73591 and these commuters don't know how far I've come, but they can probably guess.
