The Universe’s velocity waits for no one.
The doors open, a woman in an orange dress enters the streetcar. The air is musty and mute, the tracks are laid against the asphalt. I question everything, my words exhale from my lungs, my breath singes my left collar. The train shifts, a man with a newspaper in his hands is falling asleep: Art stands still on its pages as dancers are caught by a photographer’s lens.
I recall an hour ago, when I was certain: For a few seconds I stood still, on a planet too old to care, too fast to stop… Earth waits for no one. Not even a streetcar running four minutes behind schedule.
There is a bus that I am late for; It will leave if I am not there.