In the waiting room, a good old fan Is at its boringly repetitive motion on surface of breeze, from a white high ceiling that was an old sky forgetting to wear a custom blue. We rest our backs on green sofa savouring another death by ennui.
The train now comes chugging in , accompanied by steam of people in repetitive bests,the newspapers crackling on their trousered laps with old news of who dies where.
A suicide collects bored crowds at the edge of a platform framed by the disinterested winter sky. We wait for ennui to die of itself.