It’s a summer’s evening. At a train platform. One lady is pacing back and forth and muttering to herself. A man is having an argument with someone invisible. He suddenly jumps to his feet sassily and snaps his finger at his phantom rival. One person with unwashed long hair is crouched right at the entrance to the platform, head almost at their feet level with the ground, and stays like that, unnaturally still, for quite some time. Don’t know if they are stretching, or looking for something, or meditating, or something else.
There’s one more argument taking place, but in this case, both people involved are visible. A man is screaming at a woman. Not sure what about. Then he finally leaves and marches off the platform, and she comes after him a bit later, her arms laden with bags. They don’t get on the train when it finally comes (late, because only half the trains are running, because something broke further down the track and they’ve been doing “emergency” repairs all week long), they’re instead walking down the street in another direction after a conference over a trash can.
There’s really no one else around.
Los Angeles seems to excel at making people either miserable or out of their minds.
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