After I had noticed a woman, roughly about my age, staring at me with interest, our minimal connection was short-lived once a bald fiend took a seat in front of her, climbing onboard from the Clark/Lake stop. I was ultimately distracted from this man, coated in facial artwork and a packing mean fucker of a face. At several instances, him and I would make eye contact, but I would fashionably look away as if I was merely surveying the area. But I wasn't. I wanted to study this man even further, but really all he did was sat there with a hand resting on his mouth, sort of like the pose certain chicks and amateur fuckboys do with their "strong hand" when taking a selfie.
I wish something had happened, non-violent-wise. Talk on the phone, look down and reflect on your possible slimy life. Look in the mirror and realize how ridiculous you look with those tattoos around your eyes. If only I had known what they meant or stood for, and taking a seat closer to him was out of the question since the remaining seats by this time were now occupied by other train riders.
Lost Years was blasting through eardrums when I started to question the small encounter. Perhaps it was a kind reminder to not get artwork done on your face, or avoid going bald. But then the darker reflections were pouring in: Stay away from the muck, and you won't end up like him; don't stroll along life on a solitary route, and eventually the good of things will be seen more clearly; talking to him would change everything, but I'm no journalist, even though I have to tendency to palaver with strangers - it really all depends on how the mood sets in.
Once the train got to Damen, the dull fiend had gotten up and went through the doors. That was it. Nothing special had happened, but it's hard to forget a face that was laced with poorly chosen art on the way home.
April 9th, 2016
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