A blur of foreign background whispers.
The engine fades and roars.
The turning of magazine pages,
rustling of snack packages,
occasional footsteps - the clothes swishing past ear,
People clicking their fingernails and
tongues
And
People flicking their faces, their faces.
But there's silence in the seat next to
me.
But there's silence in the seat next to
me.
A horrible, regrettable silence-
