The Rome airport has an idiom of a figure on its knees, for either prayer or blowjobs I imagine. Perhaps both, depending on your degree of faith. The air is cloying, like being pressed against anothers breath, or at least it is inside this train. The woman facing me inhales from a grubby orange packet of cookies, fidgets with a phone trapped in frayed strips of duct tape, the curled flypaper edges capture the few crumbs escaping the surface of her rusping mustachios. Her invariable mole peers, like a bent glaswegian counselor looking to skim the best of the meal for himself. Such moles are invariably male. On the metro a man, sitting just by the door, has somehow managed to will a perfect shining ellipse of baldness just at the crown of his head, like a tonsure. flowing silver hair cascading from the perimeter of this dome give him, when viewed from the rear, the unenviable aspect of a single fried egg.
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