So we meet at platforms with arms outstretched for each other. Biting letters and tongues forgetting a man on his own in the corner. Two signs: Stop. God. Behind mountains with faces, afraid of electrons strumming, humming, and banging for existence. Platform shaking in anticipation for what could be happening at a different station. The tunnel is empty and cold like mountain peaks with bleeding stains. Messes caused by mass revolt. A ghost standing in the corner -- and am I in his eyes? Is that me who moves and breathes with lungs and leaves platforms unfinished? Electrons spin, a silly grin on the ghost's face. Could all I own, all I know be so meticulously out of place within mountains and train-stations where people meet on platforms unarmed and free from their condescending looks, their unbelievable need to be the best at what they do? When you step off the train you are naked to the eyes of a ghost sitting on the mountains staring at the starer. You've become the subject, the object in which I can be me. At last.