A river flows along the car parking of my city’s busy railway station, and it’s almost childish the way they both compete for the flow of life. The banks of that river are fenced with vacant stares of incomplete lives, of an occasional couple with nowhere to hide, of a lost traveller lost again, of unrequited love, of indescribable pain. The ground along the banks is sad- slapped by the dirty tides, abused by cigarette butts, piling ash, and a corner entitled to human waste- smelly, stale, ignored, unchanged. But come the night blows this wind- quiet, enough, troubled yet serene. It helps the ferries along their way, helps the thoughts to drift away, helps the odours to momentarily disappear while humans brood and contemplate. But I wish one of these days, a chauffeur decides to stay, to turn away from the one he was supposed to pick up, and lingers for a moment longer along this endless body of water, and along every thought he usually hides, but fails this...