TCP06 - Keio Line

A man, perhaps in his late twenties, makes his way aboard the train entangled in the flow of rush hour human traffic and finds a seat in the priority section. He wears sneakers, basic blue jeans, and a forest green polo, buttoned to the top with a blue and white striped towel draped over the collar. His hair is a short and messy nest of pitch blackness, countered and amplified by his ghostly pale complexion. He gazes, with his glossy and dazed, perhaps sedated eyes, around the crammed train and out its windows, fidgeting constantly, never finding comfort, never finding satisfaction. The train is relatively silent, practically void of human noise, his neighboring passengers hiding in forced hibernation as they try to ignore his constant ramblings, a schizophrenic opera accompanied by a symphony of whirring engines and clicking tracks as the train makes its way through the city.

"Oh no, I missed my train...

What am I supposed to do now?!

...

My god, there isn't anything I can do, is there?"