Next Stop...

Morgan steps onto the subway platform. At the base of the stairs the crowds are already in full, rush hour bloom. Strangers crowding closer together, underground, at the end of their day. Reading, fidgeting over electronics, staring at the tracks while thinking about what to make for dinner. The noise of bankers, secretaries, lawyers, programmers and accountants clambering home from the office. High heels, soft soles, the cane of a blind man clicking out in front of him. Cackled, intelligible squawks blare from ancient, tin speakers dangling over the comings and goings. A cacophony, perhaps yet -a symphony, a tide of beings pushing further towards the gap where the train is soon to stand.

But there is no train, at least, not yet. More people migrate down the stairs towards him. More people with their day still swirling around in their head and their evening set out before them. Beyond them, above them - through the gates and the fares and the ticket taker nearing retirement - a busker raises his face to the florescent spotlight and pours his voice over those unseen, waiting on the platform below. Wafting melodies before an open guitar case. Rent in dollars, nickels and dimes.

Above the music, scuttling about on the crust of the Earth; buses, trucks, cars, more souls leave the urban core. In droves they move. Mixed with exhaust, rubber, steel, and plastic; a torrent of cotton, wool, polyester, make up, cologne and cigarette smoke jostle between the intersections, across the asphalt and concrete. The grime in the sky is smeared between the buildings. The clouds censor the daylight until nothing is left except a pale blanket of luminescence that drifts and lingers over everything. The oesophagi of elevators purging load after load of productivity from the upper decks to the lobbies and streets below. People button up and zip up. They don their hats and unfurl their umbrellas. They pass beggars and trash. They pass boutiques, newspapers and delis. They do not look at one another. They are barely aware that other people are beside them, in front of them, above them, below them. The cab honk or the siren wail down the block, nearly inaudible to them. They don't consider their unmet neighbour, there in the shadow of the towering hospital, full of dying and sick, injured and newborn. Who does? Who can? The cascades of humanity, the tonnage of emotion, memory, ambition. Synapses firing. Hearts beating at combined decibels that would drown out the roars of aeroplanes thrusting through the smear and into the fresh, freezing plains that roll above the clouds. They are a galaxy away. They are on the phone, or fixing their scarf or suffering heartburn or counting change in their cup.

Standing still, a book in his pocket, Morgan stares at the tiles on the wall. He does not wonder about dinner. He does not consider the bills in his mailbox, or the flesh that seems to hang just that much further over his belt. Morgan fills himself with the moment. He fills himself with being amongst the crowd, among strangers. Underground. A place he has been many times before. Where, despite the numbers, the tight spaces, the meters of soil and rock that loom overhead, even with a massive train barrelling down the tunnel toward them, people linger safely, snugly, with wraps and hats, baby buggies and laptops. They dismiss potential. They nestle there, ensemble, ensieme. A single body of elements; breathing and dreaming, worrying, waiting, planning and praying - together.

The voice and guitar from above meshes and tames the mass of a crowd's inevitable babble into a swell of wet, organic melody. A man coughs, a girl giggles with her friends. Scratching necks, struggling with groceries, packages and yoga mats furled and fastened to trendy bags. Commerce, want, disappointment, desire even love on these filthy tiles at the base of the stairs. A shiny, rolling tube laden with more flesh, brain and hair, highlighted under back lit pleas for higher education, candy cane colour safety instructions and pamphlets for where to learn more.

He recognizes it instantly. Harmony. He caught glimpses of it throughout his life. Lying, tangled in the arms of his lover, in his youth. When the world was waiting to be conquered and all things were possible and her skin was so soft and radiant. Discovery was in every gaze, kiss and touch; every word that fluttered from her round, tender mouth. When he closed the door on his parent's house and walked down the street, independently embarking on life's journey under his own steam. Before he moved back in for a couple years after the divorce. The freedom of his own movement, his muscles under his complete command to take him to the ends of the Earth, across oceans and over mountains. Or at least, to a bigger city. Along with others of the same feather. To struggle, toil, spend and claw for anonymous independence, only to assimilate, negotiate and compromise with the masses that now surround him.