passing

I don't really like flying.   I like stenches and scents,  train stations and trains, places where people are forced to stay and wait.

All stations have the same smell: old cold piss and detergents. Before there also was the scent of diesel, metallic and strong, but no more. Electricity is kind of faceless. No character. Just some oil and vaseline.

And the voices, sounds, all of it: people, machines, echoes, pigeons. You sit there somewhere with a coffee and close your eyes. Somewhere. Anywhere. A woman laughing. Some boys heating each other. A fay man screaming and a child running away after a sparrow.  Everywhere, too, there are the birds inside the buildings, station halls.

And the announcements echo... You can just and just figure out the message, half guessing: departure of a train is due in...  People are rushing to the platform and others rush out of the train towards the station and taxis, underground and trams. Or just to get an ice cream from a kiosk.

Thousands of people. Every day. Each with a life, coming from somewhere and going somewhere, with a goal or just aimlessly wandering - amazing puzzle of life... never ending kaleidoscope...