Buttoned up khaki coat, creased dress pants, and the meal handle on his briefcase stinging hsi skin in this sharp air; the atmosphere is void from life, from noise, and from movement. His face is ghastly hallowed and his sunken eyes are rimmed with dark circles as he is immersed in the silence of this platform, closing his tired eyes in desperate hope he might hear the unusually comforting noise of a distant engine, his thinning faith escaping him and wilting into dry, cracking petals that join the others as the harsh wind carries it onto the empty tracks. His dress shoes tap impatiently for the car to roll upon these tracks, for a moment where he is not pathetically train stationed, futilely waiting still for you to loudly appear and swiftly carry him to unknown destinations.