The eclectic chatter formed to be monotonous, especially to the typical commuter as early as it was that morning. Silence at this time in the station would serve as a reason for suspicion towards whatever imminent force was insisting the hush. 

Alternating speckled floor tiles of ash grey and (what at once was) off-white, now comparable to the complexion of a sickly patient, whitewashed concrete walls amassed with local flyers competitively pasted upon one another, stickers from local art collectives attempting to spread the appeal of their brands, and spray-painted graffiti tags from artists whom grew tired of not receiving the attention they desire. There is some enjoyment to be found in distinguishing the plethora of destinations that these civil transport participants are bound to embark on. It is advantageous to begin with their hands. In the Modern era, the vast majority will occupy at least one of their hands with a cellular mobile device. Whether it is being tapped to navigate and send messages to a colleague, attached to a pair of headphones to tune out the crowded arena with their personal soundtrack to motivate their day, or held up their ear to have a personal conversation that any healthy human being within a ten meter range can hear and digest. If any of those are the case, then the other appendage will act as the indicative telling hand—Specifically, their beverage of choice. A cup of coffee for those desiring energy to start their morning in the office with a proper boost, a can of an industrial-grade energy drink for the laborer that is in desperate need of said boost, and a bottle of beer for those on the road home following an energy-expelling evening financed by their parents’ not-so-hard-earned money.  

The electric hum begins. Conversations persist, but with the increasing symphony of humming, whining, and rumbling, focus physically turns to face the loading track. The final clue of the yellow headlights and clanking mechanics as the decades-old train attempts to gracefully maneuver a slight turn to line parallel with the inpatient loading patrons. Walking towards the train, eye out for loose litter or the shine of a puddle made up of a mysterious liquid of debatable viscosity, it is important to allow those that are departing the train car to make their way to their destination. However this is not for their sake, it is to exploitatively take up the room they formerly occupied before the chaotic shuffling ensued. Occasionally accommodating for the old, the fragile, and the sensitive, the politics of sitting on the train acts as an unspoken republic. Affirming glances and stares acting as votes to enact and veto different behavior, such as solving seating conflicts, imposing verbal de-escalation, shunning panhandlers, and leaving dormant occupants to rest in peace—regardless of where their stop may fall on the line.

On offensively early mornings such as these, the sterile illumination of the florescent train lightbulbs pierced the orbitals with little regard for what cerebral afflictions may be occurring for its faithful riders. Adelaide, despite spending the entirety of her spell on Earth taking this commute—or at least adjacent to this particular train line—was no exception to the retina-curing burn of defeat in the morning. In contradiction to the trends of the brilliantly conjured socio-theories utilized to analyze the average iron horse passenger, Adelaide was an anomaly.