station. ive never been to a station before…i have only imagined it through the life of harry potter. british accents, candy, the occasional dementor, and robes. realistically, i imagine them to be a place of commonality between people.
The train station. Always taking people away. Me away. I want to go away. Everyone does in some way, I think. They might say they don’t, they might want to live in their town forever, but really, I think on a daily basis, everyone who is still truly living has a moment in the day where they want to run.
Bus station nation. Meeting hobos who are in their own worlds. Their own creations. We look upon them with frustration. But there’s no use for retaliation. They’re just finding their own forms of elation.
a train station perhaps. Many people going about on their day to day activities and all going to this station. a station with beautiful flowers and a light airy splendor that no one seems to notcie. they just look down at their newspapers and pout. every single day.
I went to the train station and met a man but I didn’t get his name. What was I supposed to do? We were both on our ways out of town and I didn’t think we’d even have time to properly introduce ourselves. I think of him as train-man, though, and someday I hope to see him in an inocuous place like the supermarket or my backyard. Until then, I’ll whisper to my cat that I miss my train-man and only wished I had told him where I was going.
The wind whistled along the tracks, following a train as it blew on past the platform. Terrence was sure it was suppose to stop, but the damn thing didn’t even stop. He pushed his glasses up onto his nose and glowered at the once again empty tracks, only a little piece of paper blowing to show that the mystery train had even passed him at all that day.
however far I have travelled, I could never forget about the first train station I went through. it smelled musty, like someone had smoked four packs a day in an elevator for the past sixty years. it was dingy and dark, I wasn’t sure where to go. we smiled at each other the whole way through the covered maze of lights and sounds. where we were going I had no idea, but we knew we would never come back again. her smile was so magnificent that I could barely contain the feeling I had in the pit of my stomach, whether it was nervousness of love I never quite figured out.
im thinking about a train station. specifically that one song about one toke over the line sweet jesus, one toke over the line. sittin downtown on the railway station one toke over the line. i really like that song. i’ve been in a real train station before. a few times. theyre fun.
Sitting alone in the radio station, fighting static and hallowed voices, proves to be a task of stamina. One college rock song after another, Dave Matthews Band drills ear drums without signs of relenting. It is time to tune out.
there are a million people here waiting. waiting on a train or a bus. I can’t seem to tell. my eyes are closed and i am well into a dreamlike state. my body lies there quivering. The window is cracked open with a cool breeze wrapping around my body.
ther is at station at the fire place down the street from the park on my way to my best friends house where i go all the time even though i he goes to my house all the time not really though but i still text him yeah we are good friends
i go to the train station sometimes to go downtown. i like doing this because i like going downtown. the station is go to is bethayres. its small. there arent many people there usually. i pay for parking in quarters. if i have time and he’s there, i ask the old man for my ticket. otherwise i get it on the train, after i leave the station.
I went to the station to find my bus but it wasn’t there and i was worried that maybe i have missed it again. the reality was that the bus was late, which would have been okay….it only it wern’t raining out. It was cold, this rain, i thought at the time that i would have fallen terribly ill standing there in my sandles
The station lie ahead, decrepit and forgotten. I peer through the windows of the train and weep silently for those who suffered in the accident – burnt, broken, and only faintly remembered.
trains, buses, things I don’t like to ride, hell, maybe even airplanes. why does the letter T make a shhh sound? words are fucked up, it’s really hard to type with a cigarette in my hand. blah blah blah. has it been 60 seconds yet?
?
?
station…tv stations, radio stations, bus stations, transit stations, stations are everywhere when you think about it, it’s really hard to go through life without seeing one, heck, even one day without seing one. they’re just really common. I bet you can name your five favortie stations right now.
it had been sitting alone for such a long time. the station had been empty for what felt like lifetimes. still the seasons changed, the time passed, and no one came.
Train station, Grand Central Station. Bus Station. Gas Stations. There are many gas stations next to my house. I prefer Mobile, Hess, Sunoco, or Citgo. Citgo and Hess usually have the cheapest gas.
The train station bustled with people young and old. I heard the person on the loudspeaker announce the incoming train. Nobody even lifted their heads to listen, just continued doing what they were doing.
I’ve come from a new station. A place I’ve never been and will always be. An artist, a pauper, a queen in the sea. Stations change in live but creativity makes it what you need.
the train station is lovely and beautiful except only sometimes because it is often sketchy and filled with dirtiness but thats okay because the train station is the only way i can get to places. the skytrain is beautiful, especially the canadaline.. they really come in handy in terms of transportation so i appreciate it.
When I left you last we kissed in the hot muggy air between the metronorth landings. I knew that I wouldn’t be seeing you again. When your picture happens into my hand i imagine what it feels like to stroke your beard and stare into those beautiful blue eyes once more. I miss you.
oh okay im writing. its kinda late. alot of crazy stuff is happening in my little town recently. just gets me thinking as to why… why i got a second chance at life when some other people dont get that chance. like i wanna know. or maybe its best i dont know.
She works at the newsstand, selling papers to the lonely, harried businesspeople. She notices the buses and trains leaving, taking them away to their offices and places of work. The station is always busy at the peak times: in the morning, when no one is truly awake, and when the afternoon slowly bleeds into evening, when people shuffle home.
the train left the station as i was sitting next to a young man on his cellular phone, i hadn’t ledt the house in 20 years how was I supposed to strike up a conversation when I had no Idea of his name or occupation… listen in on his conversation.
His station in life was defined clearly by the boundaries laid by his forefathers. Theirs was a family of master craftsmen, they forged steel and obsidian into glorious works of war. However, to do anything else? Unthinkable. So, when Fredrick finally drummed up the nerve to tell his father that he wished to make silverware–the fancy kind with spirals and detailed engravings–along with matching dishware, it came as little surprise that he was immediately disinherited.
I share a carriage with a middle-aged man, who dozes off the moment he sits down, and a young woman, who reads books and eats pastries, and licks her icing-coated fingers delicately. Two thirds along the way there are wild boars, the biggest ones half as tall as me. They swarm the train, blocking our way. One pokes its head through our window, and the woman takes out a pistol and shoots the boar. Then she turns around and points it at the man.
trains are going past me. The clock is ticking, and people rush by; living through their rushed pathetic lives. They’ve forgotten why they’re living, they just exist, just try to get through another day….
The train station is a strange place. As I sit there strangers pass me by and avoid eyes. A man at the cab stand starts polite conversation. He walks away and begins again, “Where are you from?”
“Long Island”
I’ve never been to a train station. That’s a lie. I have. One time, I don’t know where the destination was to. I’m very well acquatinted with the devonshire division police station. my family used to always have to go there because we had a lot of issues with, you know, custody and stuff. domestic violence and stuff. I don’t like bus stations. wait, are there bus stations?
They stood outside of the train on the platform, looking around to see if anyone there looked like they were waiting for two young children to take home. The finally spotted an elderly man also looking around. At once, all of the fear in the world filled the station as the man walked toward them with an eerie smile.
The train screeched to a stop as it pulled into the station. Anna looked out the window eagerly, searching the crowds for the one person she wanted to see. Her face lit up when she saw him. Dressed in a navy blue uniform of the union army, stood Jason, her brother and best friend.
the conductor moved up and down the isles, assisting anyone out of the car with their luggage.
Grim wheels and tracks; I think of Bob Dylan and rainbow gatherings, of the nomadic life and other cliched scenes. I think of Polish women waving goodbye, their platochki gripped in their hands.
He picked up his blue satin bag, ready to hurl it into the train’s luggage compartment. Outside, something caught his eye. He ran down the corridor and the steel stairs immediately, but she was gone. Looking here and there, he saw her again. He was confused as to what had happened to her. Perhaps that was what had fascinated him so much. This was his first time in a third world country. He was quite oblivious to the world. Her face, he could tell, was once a very beautiful, if not a very groomed face. But it was only the outline of it that remained for what happened to it was beyond anyone’s comprehension. She was selling candy to the passengers. He went to her and bought a packet of mnms from her, while the whole time staring at her.
Bus stations are very different depending on their location. Some have amazing food, others lack even a vending machine. The people you see at bus stations vary more than the food does. In my travels I’ve bumped elbows with bands, lone travelers, movers, all sorts of different people. The stations become a point of refuge for long travels. You can find food, company, electricity, or even just a place to lay your head down as you wait for your transfer. They can also be a place filled with frustration. Late buses, overfilled buses and rude people all can contribute.
station. ive never been to a station before…i have only imagined it through the life of harry potter. british accents, candy, the occasional dementor, and robes. realistically, i imagine them to be a place of commonality between people.
The train station. Always taking people away. Me away. I want to go away. Everyone does in some way, I think. They might say they don’t, they might want to live in their town forever, but really, I think on a daily basis, everyone who is still truly living has a moment in the day where they want to run.
Im thinking like train stations. Ive only been to a couple. Grand centrtal and the poughkeepsie train station where my school is.
Bus station nation. Meeting hobos who are in their own worlds. Their own creations. We look upon them with frustration. But there’s no use for retaliation. They’re just finding their own forms of elation.
railway station, pallavi used to call from nl station while catching her train.
i had bee to police station a month ago
a train station perhaps. Many people going about on their day to day activities and all going to this station. a station with beautiful flowers and a light airy splendor that no one seems to notcie. they just look down at their newspapers and pout. every single day.
I went to the train station and met a man but I didn’t get his name. What was I supposed to do? We were both on our ways out of town and I didn’t think we’d even have time to properly introduce ourselves. I think of him as train-man, though, and someday I hope to see him in an inocuous place like the supermarket or my backyard. Until then, I’ll whisper to my cat that I miss my train-man and only wished I had told him where I was going.
The wind whistled along the tracks, following a train as it blew on past the platform. Terrence was sure it was suppose to stop, but the damn thing didn’t even stop. He pushed his glasses up onto his nose and glowered at the once again empty tracks, only a little piece of paper blowing to show that the mystery train had even passed him at all that day.
however far I have travelled, I could never forget about the first train station I went through. it smelled musty, like someone had smoked four packs a day in an elevator for the past sixty years. it was dingy and dark, I wasn’t sure where to go. we smiled at each other the whole way through the covered maze of lights and sounds. where we were going I had no idea, but we knew we would never come back again. her smile was so magnificent that I could barely contain the feeling I had in the pit of my stomach, whether it was nervousness of love I never quite figured out.
im thinking about a train station. specifically that one song about one toke over the line sweet jesus, one toke over the line. sittin downtown on the railway station one toke over the line. i really like that song. i’ve been in a real train station before. a few times. theyre fun.
Sitting alone in the radio station, fighting static and hallowed voices, proves to be a task of stamina. One college rock song after another, Dave Matthews Band drills ear drums without signs of relenting. It is time to tune out.
there are a million people here waiting. waiting on a train or a bus. I can’t seem to tell. my eyes are closed and i am well into a dreamlike state. my body lies there quivering. The window is cracked open with a cool breeze wrapping around my body.
train station. it rumbles, the cars going by and i sit there content, humming to the beat of the street.
ther is at station at the fire place down the street from the park on my way to my best friends house where i go all the time even though i he goes to my house all the time not really though but i still text him yeah we are good friends
i go to the train station sometimes to go downtown. i like doing this because i like going downtown. the station is go to is bethayres. its small. there arent many people there usually. i pay for parking in quarters. if i have time and he’s there, i ask the old man for my ticket. otherwise i get it on the train, after i leave the station.
I went to the station to find my bus but it wasn’t there and i was worried that maybe i have missed it again. the reality was that the bus was late, which would have been okay….it only it wern’t raining out. It was cold, this rain, i thought at the time that i would have fallen terribly ill standing there in my sandles
The station lie ahead, decrepit and forgotten. I peer through the windows of the train and weep silently for those who suffered in the accident – burnt, broken, and only faintly remembered.
trains, buses, things I don’t like to ride, hell, maybe even airplanes. why does the letter T make a shhh sound? words are fucked up, it’s really hard to type with a cigarette in my hand. blah blah blah. has it been 60 seconds yet?
?
?
A house, no… a structure that houses red things that save lives.
station…tv stations, radio stations, bus stations, transit stations, stations are everywhere when you think about it, it’s really hard to go through life without seeing one, heck, even one day without seing one. they’re just really common. I bet you can name your five favortie stations right now.
it had been sitting alone for such a long time. the station had been empty for what felt like lifetimes. still the seasons changed, the time passed, and no one came.
Train station, Grand Central Station. Bus Station. Gas Stations. There are many gas stations next to my house. I prefer Mobile, Hess, Sunoco, or Citgo. Citgo and Hess usually have the cheapest gas.
The train station bustled with people young and old. I heard the person on the loudspeaker announce the incoming train. Nobody even lifted their heads to listen, just continued doing what they were doing.
I’ve come from a new station. A place I’ve never been and will always be. An artist, a pauper, a queen in the sea. Stations change in live but creativity makes it what you need.
the train station is lovely and beautiful except only sometimes because it is often sketchy and filled with dirtiness but thats okay because the train station is the only way i can get to places. the skytrain is beautiful, especially the canadaline.. they really come in handy in terms of transportation so i appreciate it.
When I left you last we kissed in the hot muggy air between the metronorth landings. I knew that I wouldn’t be seeing you again. When your picture happens into my hand i imagine what it feels like to stroke your beard and stare into those beautiful blue eyes once more. I miss you.
oh okay im writing. its kinda late. alot of crazy stuff is happening in my little town recently. just gets me thinking as to why… why i got a second chance at life when some other people dont get that chance. like i wanna know. or maybe its best i dont know.
She works at the newsstand, selling papers to the lonely, harried businesspeople. She notices the buses and trains leaving, taking them away to their offices and places of work. The station is always busy at the peak times: in the morning, when no one is truly awake, and when the afternoon slowly bleeds into evening, when people shuffle home.
the train left the station as i was sitting next to a young man on his cellular phone, i hadn’t ledt the house in 20 years how was I supposed to strike up a conversation when I had no Idea of his name or occupation… listen in on his conversation.
His station in life was defined clearly by the boundaries laid by his forefathers. Theirs was a family of master craftsmen, they forged steel and obsidian into glorious works of war. However, to do anything else? Unthinkable. So, when Fredrick finally drummed up the nerve to tell his father that he wished to make silverware–the fancy kind with spirals and detailed engravings–along with matching dishware, it came as little surprise that he was immediately disinherited.
I share a carriage with a middle-aged man, who dozes off the moment he sits down, and a young woman, who reads books and eats pastries, and licks her icing-coated fingers delicately. Two thirds along the way there are wild boars, the biggest ones half as tall as me. They swarm the train, blocking our way. One pokes its head through our window, and the woman takes out a pistol and shoots the boar. Then she turns around and points it at the man.
trains are going past me. The clock is ticking, and people rush by; living through their rushed pathetic lives. They’ve forgotten why they’re living, they just exist, just try to get through another day….
The train station is a strange place. As I sit there strangers pass me by and avoid eyes. A man at the cab stand starts polite conversation. He walks away and begins again, “Where are you from?”
“Long Island”
I like train stations because I’m going places. It’s a thrill. It’s an adventure. It’s life. It’s me.
I’ve never been to a train station. That’s a lie. I have. One time, I don’t know where the destination was to. I’m very well acquatinted with the devonshire division police station. my family used to always have to go there because we had a lot of issues with, you know, custody and stuff. domestic violence and stuff. I don’t like bus stations. wait, are there bus stations?
They stood outside of the train on the platform, looking around to see if anyone there looked like they were waiting for two young children to take home. The finally spotted an elderly man also looking around. At once, all of the fear in the world filled the station as the man walked toward them with an eerie smile.
The train screeched to a stop as it pulled into the station. Anna looked out the window eagerly, searching the crowds for the one person she wanted to see. Her face lit up when she saw him. Dressed in a navy blue uniform of the union army, stood Jason, her brother and best friend.
the conductor moved up and down the isles, assisting anyone out of the car with their luggage.
Grim wheels and tracks; I think of Bob Dylan and rainbow gatherings, of the nomadic life and other cliched scenes. I think of Polish women waving goodbye, their platochki gripped in their hands.
He picked up his blue satin bag, ready to hurl it into the train’s luggage compartment. Outside, something caught his eye. He ran down the corridor and the steel stairs immediately, but she was gone. Looking here and there, he saw her again. He was confused as to what had happened to her. Perhaps that was what had fascinated him so much. This was his first time in a third world country. He was quite oblivious to the world. Her face, he could tell, was once a very beautiful, if not a very groomed face. But it was only the outline of it that remained for what happened to it was beyond anyone’s comprehension. She was selling candy to the passengers. He went to her and bought a packet of mnms from her, while the whole time staring at her.
Bus stations are very different depending on their location. Some have amazing food, others lack even a vending machine. The people you see at bus stations vary more than the food does. In my travels I’ve bumped elbows with bands, lone travelers, movers, all sorts of different people. The stations become a point of refuge for long travels. You can find food, company, electricity, or even just a place to lay your head down as you wait for your transfer. They can also be a place filled with frustration. Late buses, overfilled buses and rude people all can contribute.