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Re-reading Fight Club.

In the subway, headphones plugged in ears, music mixed with the noise of trains and crowd, i read the book for 5th time. I sit there, in a train, and every once in a while i take a look around, and there are people. Some seem alive, some - not. No one have bruises, no one's eyes look like two black holes - just a generation of worker wasps, unharmed and well-dressed. And blank. I know that i just don't know them, but so do them. We dont know each other, and so we dont exist in each other's worlds.

But then there is some guy standing near the door, and his blood is all over the place - on the floor, on the door, on the seat next to him. He stands there, and everyone around pretend like they don't notice. Pretend, and try to sit as far from him as they can. No one calls medics. No one calls police. No one asks "are you okay, can i help?" Neither do i. I care, but i don't do anything - the guy seems okay, and i cant say that he looks like victim. Well, victim he is - but not of a crime, but of education. Of people and media. Of his generation.

Next stop, he leaves the train. Blood all over, on the floor and on the sit near the door. The door slides back, covered in blood. Train moves. "Next stop is...". The next stop. Door slides, with the blood on it.

And people entering the train seem to wonder - what happened. The door slides back...

And do i know what happened to him? Of course i don't.

That's how the world around works. Train is dirty, so they wash it. Next stop, its all back to being clean and shiny - the floor, the door, everything.

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Music: Hamada Mari - Back to Cypher

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