I was on the red train. Inside, it was dusty and moldy. The train rocked back and forth as it moved at a slow speed; I got the distinction that at any moment it could break into two. There were people seated all around, but their faces were hard to distinguish. Some were quiet, while some talked so loudly as if they wanted people outside the train to hear.

I could not comprehend how anyone could enjoy those activities.

I looked through the glass window and immediately closed my eyes. My eyelids did not show blackness; there were purple and pink colors flying as if in space. But once I opened my eyes, they disappeared.

Outside, I looked carefully. It was the same old world. There were mostly empty fields, but every now and then, a bird would fly over, and a wild rabbit would run fast into the middle of the fields as the train passed by. There was a forest every now and then and small old houses that looked as if half of it was built underground, but most buildings the train passed were abandoned.

I leaned against the glass, then looked up, wondering where the sun had gone, and I saw it as a white ball glued up into the sky. I looked directly into it, and my eyes did not hurt.

I leaned back into my seat and sat there until I arrived in the city.

The walk was the same as before, and the sights were all the same, but even if the people were different, in the end, they were all faces I couldn't remember.

I reached my building, paused, and looked at the street—more houses demolished, more apartment complexes being made, the road tighter, the people honking more, the prices up, and everyone rushing to buy everything to stock up; better to be safe. I walked inside. The air was so different—cooler.

I walked into that dark place and chose not to go up the elevator. Instead, I climbed the stairs and touched the cold rail. There was gum and broken plastic on at least one step on all floors; the lights flickered, but the floor below mine did not. I made it to the door; the snowman doll hung there; it was not stolen. I unlocked the door and went inside.

The walls were white—a pale white. There were black dots and scratches all over the walls, and dead flies on the floor. I stepped inside and looked around, and still, the walls were that dull old white with scratches left by the previous tenants and the other black scratches left by me.

I breathed in the room; it was hot, and I needed to open the window, but I still looked at the walls, and they remained the same old white paint.

Still I kept lookingat them and the door behind me closed.