= THREE =
Fried food. It is the smell that invades my nostrils every breath I take. Contrary to obvious conclusions, I am on the subway going home, not in a greasy joint around any corner.
The commute is short, but sometimes made unbearable by odours and crowds. The space is scarce and my figure does need some weight-losing. As I scrabble these thoughts, my mind drifts to far away, to a place where all is perfection; space is enough; people are clean and smelts are pleasant.
Well, just as I finish the sentence, a strong smell of urine rises up and nauseated my already fragile stomach.
Yep, as much as I enjoy the freedom the transit system provides, I can't help but feel certain discomfort at times.
Time is up. Gotta get of here. For today it is over.
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