(i) Then there was the train. The train had grey floors full of tiny specks. They looked like warring microorganisms in a cut-up microscope frame. They were dead and inedible, and they were where all the gazes of little people went. They pretended to stare at their phones. But no, the ground was what drew them in to look down, and their bones wanted the wet earth and the orgy of little grey flecks. The little people rushed around with guilt it their faces and fear cross their wrists. They were guilty of everything. They were guilty of their bosses. They were guilty of the rain. They were guilty for their women. They were guilty from the cold. But their guilt was a pneumonia that led them past dripping floors and leaking ceilings and the upwards gazes into their own leaking bladders when they were upside down. I stood amongst the little people on the grey-flecked floor in the train on the tracks by some station or tunnel walls or air or not, not knowing if i was a little person because How Would I Know if i were a littel persen. The little people may know each other or themselves or see their numbers on the collarbones in the mirror. Canned flesh do not reflect each other, canned flesh have sunny yellow labels the colour of sunken saccharine and cheeks and ten-a-dime cancer pills. I do not know if i am a little person, but i do not want to know. The little people convict their curious and tickle their feet in rural sanatoriums where laughter cannot be heard. I will not find out if i am a little person, and i do not know if i am like all little people. There are flies in my eyes, and i cannot see the flies of my eyes because they will fly or keep flying in through my eyes through my life.
(ii) The little pinball lights on the train tell us if we are home. Otherwise they are not to be trusted. If they say we are in space we are not in space, we are on earth. If they say we are not earth we are in might be space. The little lights only tells everyone their own home. It is a smart system. The government had sponsored in in the trains to protect the little person from the little people. In front of me there were two old women in red shirts. I wanted to stroke their backs because they reminded me of a red bird that Salvatore once kept in his backyard, but they didn’t look feathery because there was a dark red damp patch over their backs. Both their backs. They smelt crusty and our like old shepherd’s pie gone bad, and i could hear Salvatore asking them in his bright yellow woebegone voice what they were herding and whether they thought it was nice to herd someone if your hadn’t even had any good grass to herd them to.
(iii) But then the pinball hit the next stop and the brown around the train stopped became another brown, the same one just without motion. A disembodied voice was calling out ‘Serangoon’ but i could see the lips of the two old ladies saying it, just like it but twisted in old old creole and their bulging jowls twisting and bouncing in weathered flappers across their neck and lips. I thought i was going to split them from navel and belly, but they looked busy with their talk so i got off the train and i don’t think i’ll ever see their faces again. I don’t even remember their eyes. But i know they were sad eyes. They were the eyes of their sons and daughters and the Sad Young Men and the Bright Young People. It isn’t polite to look away from people’s eyes when you’re talking or they know you’re looking, so i went out of the train back-first and with my belly open to the whole frigid compartment and my eyes never leaving those bulging bouncing jowls and they still haven’t left not until now.