Commuting takes its toll. Passengers traipse on and off. A single delay causes chaos - with bodies clambering on and squeezing into any space that remains. Our natural tendency towards personal space is invaded - instead replaced with a band of guilt that clings to all who are forced to press, knock, nudge or (in extreme situations) tackle other people.
A film of anxiety covers these travellers, stemming from the unsettling lateness of the train; the tiny disruption to hundreds of schedules which place us all on edge - making us ask will we be on time?
There is a sense of doom that pervades the carriage. These early risers, who wish to ensure they have time to arrive, or who start at the most ungodly hour, are certain in the pattern of their day, and have already coloured it with hues of grey.
Here, at the back end of the week - still far from the weekend'a shore, we bob in expectation of the expected, contemplating the variety of our free time. In my moments of whimsy I have images of deserts and paradise that are being rendered in my mind, yet my body is putting up its hand to ask for leave to sleep.
I begin to fear delay and waste again - knowing I need to find time for expression. A hurried outline on a canvas awaits - a declaration of intent that bind a me to my purpose over the the will of my body.
And now I have a cough - ticklish and violent, this is a symptom of a body that needs to rest, and a mind afraid to stop - the two working brilliantly in equilibrium against each other to wake my lungs and fog my thoughs.