When thinking of spaces where reality seems thin we remember how the waiting feels in a train station. Seeing the clocks tick by as the board shows your train continually being delayed in its irritatingly orange letters, the bitter wind racing down the tracks faster than any train you've seen pull in and of course the small railroad café that sells barely caffeinated hot drinks and sausage sandwiches that always taste odd.
What about the people on the trains though? The way they stare out past the breath-fogged windows with such a scornful look as though you were dirt beneath their feet. You don't board their trains, walking quickly to the correct platform, their heads craning around each other to properly glare at you as you pass by them. Sometimes when you stay by their train (as you come to think of it, never seeing anyone board or leave), you notice that they never blink or cease their staring at anyone on the platform.
The thing that really makes the train station feel unreal is the sounds that it makes. That faint screeching as it approaches, a sound so dreadfully close to screams. The grinding and whirring as it comes to an eventual stop. The sighing hiss at the doors open, letting whoever or more commonly whatever is inside out into the otherwise uncaring, unseeing world.
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