Lens.

It is night time. Not too late - quite early actually, I grab my already worn out camera, put the jacket of the same colour and exit through the door. The room felt like a cage. Maybe it was my heart calling for attention, nervousness, feeling of discomfort. I just couldn't get my mind to pay all the attention to it, maybe  I already overdid it today. Drilling deep is arduous, overdoing it can make me fall in, after which I get spit out. As a roller coaster. I need a change of environment.

Passing down the corridor, I notice how empty it is. The corridor. A hospital-yellowish creamy walls, with small lanterns and a grey rugged hotel carpet. It reminds me of those american movies, especially Lost in Translation. I am like Bob Harris, or Murray, as his real name is. These things around, don't understand me. It is another world, not made out of my choice. The presence hits me again and I am exiting the elevator. I presume I was on unconscious auto-pilot mode. I can never remember the small details when it stops.

I am sitting in the seat. All these people around me. Too close, I think to myself. It is not natural, we are suffocating each other. Everybody is pretending not to look at each other. So they stare at the window, which reveals nothing but a black wall and their own reflections, or at the small, probably overpriced, uninspiring advert, sitting close to the ceiling of the train. A cracking voice with an indian accent alerts the arrival to the next station through the hidden speakers, I grab my camera and stand up. Charring Cross, it is written on the walls in some old british letters. A lot of tourists, you can notice them by taking too long to pick a direction once disembarked the train. I am one myself, I think. In this town, it seems that everybody is one...