Tracing the flow

It was late, perhaps almost midnight, and the carriage was quite full. Pushed up against the window by the two young women sharing a seat beside him, dotca affected a middle distance gaze. Turning to watch the sodium and neon flare of the city as it passed, shattering and flashing across and through the trackside buildings, he slid deeper into the habitual trance of the late night traveller. In this throng, strobed by the relentless energy of the unsleeping city, unattached, drifting, almost opiated by the endless stream of visions arriving through the frame of the window, one after the other, each a story unto itself, he felt most alive, most himself, most real.