To begin at the beginning

Dressed in colour that is nameless reflecting no colour the figure stands, unmoving; perhaps looking into the light, head sunken, shoulders drooping painfully downwards. He may be contemplating his own feet, or not looking at anything, not seeing anything, contemplating only the void within.

Feet shuffle unobserved, there must have been movement, also noise, a grating scraping on the stones echoing on into the darkness and cutting across the light. How has he arrived? From where has he come? No train has arrived; he did not enter through station doors.

We must assume that he awaits the arrival of a train, the commencement of a journey or a meeting with someone whose journey is reaching an end.

This is beginning; this is conclusion. This is the moment of the present pressed close between the rapidly fading past and a dawning uncertain future, time slipping one into the other, denying now.

different trains