He stands on the platform, hears the mechanical rush of night buried deep beneath the city’s streets.
His frantic heart is resolute. It is the end.
Stale wind rushes past his face as he looks on. Lights on the track, beating down.
And with a deafening roar, silence. His eerie recollections of a life once was. Or still is?
What love, hopes and dreams he has so carelessly dismissed. Perhaps he is wrong. Perhaps…
And then, gently, sound returns. Light softly caresses his vision. He is kneeling on the platform, breath deep and steady. In. Out. In. Out.
The world becomes colour and song once more.
— written by J. M. Elaisa, from the carelessly titled, ‘Polynesians Can Eat As Well As Write Creatively’. Mahalo.