Welcome to the rabbit's hole. A blog on pulp.
What shall I say? It’s exactly like Rose told us.
I’m sitting in the train. S45. Final destination: Spandau. It’s nearly midnight. And I’m on my way home.
The train is crammed with people. Someone opened a window. I can feel it. The cooling draught. Irrelevant. The train could be completely empty and nothing were different.
Except for the guy next to me. Maybe he’s a computer scientist. Graduated. His bag looks like the perfect assecoire for that kind of people. It’s one of those mediocre black and monstrous models that could contain everything ranging from laptop to bomb.
It’s the book he’s reading. It’s small hardcover. German type. At least that’s what I can see at a distance of two meters. The bible. What brings people like him to read the bible? If he read the Q’ran he’d already be a number. One of the more important ones. Every number is different. He dressed black, by the way. A typically German anorak made to resist Arctic cold and not even able to warm a three-ton polar bear. His trousers are short enough to release the view of grey socks. I wonder if they originally had another color.
But he does not look as if he knew the term self-consciousness. Or if he had some. Maybe that’s why he reads that book. It’s a kind of support for him. He closes the pages with a snap. The cover says: theater guide.