The black gives way to white. A tiled emporium, row after row after row. People come and go, ants in a maze, chopping left and right.

A man rants at the end of the train. He speaks in French tounges. Hoping for a willing ear.

Pardon pardon as he shuffles through the carriage. Searching for a new end goal, and a fresh beginning inside his diseased mind.

A mix of pure breds and folk like me, travelling to a new destination. And all the while, watching momentary ones come and go on the number 8.



Bonne Nouvelle


No one has stood on this carriage in this spot like me before. With my crooked back and hunched shoulders, gray bag strung and a one ball of my foot slightly raised.

But a million have graced its walls. And a million million more.

Justin Batchelor