ZX2777

A hundred—a thousand—a million people running back and forth and back again. Moving out, coming back, getting lost. Only sharing a desire to go. To leave. To board and sit and wait and be somewhere else. Everyone goes to go. A gathering of people that can't see one another again. A million—a thousand—a hundred—just one. Fleeting human contact. Frost on warm glass. Gone, gone, gone.