There’s not a living soul on this commute. So it seems. Aimless bodies staggering about, perhaps some self-satisfied with titles and honours: meaning derived from a manufactured consent to partake in games and narratives, yet only laxatives that ease the passage of time as we tumble around the event horizon, stretched and warped, till that gradual descent into the abyss of a certain fate. Puppets hanging from the strings of historical happenstance, some deluded into the laughable suggestion that we’ve created our own meaning, rather dots along an aggregate curve of probabilities – the many like moths hovering around the irresistible flame of normality. True outliers, a rare existence, suffer in the forsaken darkness – a hallowed sanctuary to those who favour the inner mysteries of reality, who eschew the evanescent mirage of appearances. Now I must choose.