Bruno, with hands buried deep

Too many depressing-looking travelers lurk within the train cars of the CTA, there's no doubt about that, but there tends to be one person here and there who greatly showcases their sorrow. A man named Bruno sat himself alone by my left side. I was too indulged with my reading at the time, so deep that I refused to look up and survey my recently added temporary neighbors, that I didn't bother to look over at this man in time to see him before his mood changed. It was then he collapsed into his hands; poor old Bruno, with hands buried deep with sorrow - I did not know what to do. Normally I would ignore a stranger's sadness due to our recent acquaintance, yet the sympathy was too atavistic that I had to move away, for I felt his pain... and thank goodness I didn't hear his cries.
I named him Bruno, because he reminds me of someone from my past.

Weary Ruben

After a lengthy night of playing cards and a tedious morning of collecting books for my courses, I stumbled upon another individual whose identity was blocked by sunglasses and a distance between me and him. I got distracted at one point when a moronic bastard behind decided to blast her music through her cheaply purchased headphones. I couldn't read the book I had in my hands due to her insolence and disgusting existence, which lead me to observe my surroundings to fill my frustration. I saw him with those black sunglasses, those shades that could hide anything relative to the window of the soul; I was right. At one point, he removed his sunglasses to lean against the hard window for comfort, yet all I saw was weariness and exhaustion within those eyes, troubled by heavy bags and the upper eyelid sliding down halfway, close to collapsing. I knew he was in no good shape, but I can never find the strength in me to walk up to someone like Ruben and give them a hug; everyone needs love. But I am merely a stranger, an idle bystander existing in your essential lifetimes for solely ten seconds or less. Why was this young person so sad, so tired? Was there family troubles at home? Was he fired from his job? I have no idea, and it scares me to say that I'll never know.
I named him Ruben, because he reminds me of someone from my past.

Dear Bethesda

First and foremost, congratulations on the impending release of Fallout 4. With so much potential on the horizon and all of your fans screaming in anticipation, it's great to witness the unleashing of another adventure into the Wasteland. Second, and this is the primary purpose of the letter, I would like to personally thank you for Fallout 3. It took me a while to discover what exactly it was, until my father purchased a copy for me back in grade school. I remember it as if it was yesterday: I sat in my room watching a television show, when my father enters in the room with a brand new game I never heard of before. Without hesitation, I popped the disc into my 360 console, and became wholly enthralled within the initial ten minutes of the game, featuring Ron Perlman's voiceover for the opening sequence, meeting Liam Neeson before the dear mother passes, and being rushed out into whiteness before celebrating your one-year-old self.. Then the game played out beautifully thereafter: venture out into the Wasteland by age 19, trekking amongst the D.C. ruins, fighting against sadistic raiders and crazies, committing either insidious or peaceful acts toward humanity, and motherfucking Three Dog from Galaxy News Radio. I couldn't stop myself from playing it over and over again. Now, years later, I'm beginning another adventure in the Capital Wasteland before the new installment arrives, and I thank you, Bethesda, for literally developing a game that would entice, excite, upset, anger, and motivate me all simultaneously. Fallout 3 is my most favorable game to play whenever boredom strikes hard, and I can't wait for the Fourth. Thank you for the music, for the Wasteland, for the Vaults, for hiring Liam Neeson, and for all the adventures that have passed and for those to come.
-C. Anthony Rivera

P.S. As a resident from Desolation Row, I leave you with this: we all have that favorite video game, film, album, book, etc., that bring us a new perspective on things, get us worked up to a heartfelt addiction, or might even save us. It's important that those people are aware of the accomplishments that occur within us; without them, there would be no connection between the artist/developer/producer/writer and the audience.

Michael, a loner among us

While waiting for a mate of mine to meet up at a nearby McDonald's, a distinctive stranger stood by me, twirling his fingers and adjusting his glasses as he stood idly by. I couldn't help myself but study him for a bit (a bad habit I'm slowly developing). The hairs upon his head were slightly maturing into a bald state, where dark spots are just now beginning to appear. Buggy eyes were showcased due to the large size of his glasses, in which he would, as aforesaid, constantly adjust. Yet his most peculiar aspect was his tendency to check one of his fingers. I, too, glanced over at his finger that he was so eager to frequently play with. A sad disposition, I would suppose, for his silent lisp and gigantic lower mouth would slowly move as diminutive syllables of lost words were spurting out, entirely indistinctively. As with many tourists, visitors, and residents, I have no notion as to who exactly they are. Random scenarios pop into my head, sad and terrorizing lifestyles plague my imagination, but reality seems to make it all anchored as it abides by its casual state of existence. I never got to see this loner among us - my friend arrived approximately three minutes later, leaving me to part ways from the stranger, albeit I didn't see him enter a bus. That aspect was never witnessed.
I named him Michael, because he reminds me of someone from my past.