TCP 17 - Approaching Meidaimae

He sits, wedged into a mass of business transients grasping for leverage and struggling for footing as the train rocks its way through the endless cityscape; a pawn shop of abandoned, coveted, forgotten, and unthought of architecture. 

The mob of beat hopefuls towering above him, he sleeps, folded into himself, hopelessly collapsed upon, over, and around his cheap briefcase; hiding in a contorted ball of self-loath, or perhaps of fear, or perhaps of disgust, or perhaps of longing, as if gravity had chosen to attack him and him alone, as if the city's endless sea of eyes had trampled him, over and over again.