it's amazing what a photograph can bring back. the shifting back and forth of the train. the exact warmth and weight of a mans hand in your own. the way his top lip would push slightly upward as he exhaled, and the relief that was being conveyed when that would happen. the feeling of getting out. the feeling of knowing we had something that was the same.

his hand, his hand.. the trains movement, how free we were. how the others saw it. how hard i cried in the toronto station. how the guy who took my ticket looked at me like, "oh!..." and lit my cigarette, back when i still smoked cigarettes. the coffee, the kitchen, the late train and long delay that i loved for the time we had with the train to ourselves as it slept in the station.. the old man named coleman. the time we saw him on the bench and he knew..

everytime i'm in toronto, i make an effort to touch the walls of that station.