Handfuls of hands wrapped round the inverted braille of the yellow metal fixed adorningly above many music-filled heads, awaiting the opportunity to provide support. Many tensed simultaenous wrists popping out tendons like a palpating heart at the moment the train lurches inexorably forward, relaxing again as speed gathers in roves of metallic musterings of churning, gurning, guerneying queries into the heart of the dead city.

White wires tracing various lines down various torsos, various books held at various angles in various uncomfortable attempts at passing the weary time. Varied, yes, but all so much the same.

Ties - colourful, frozen, black, rising as though by a poltergeist's whim from the passing tunnel-breeze, then dropping, dropping, in the off-beat of heads sleepily nodding, each touching gently the closest pane of plastic glass, falling back up as though by puppetry, drooping forward in a slow assent.

Please stand clear of the doors.
Please stand clear of the doors. Understand?

Nodding: yes, yes, yes.