The subway train crawls around the corner, creaking like an old submarine, squeaking like a worn-out mattress at a cheap motel, smelling like a bachelor pad bathroom. The morning commuters all looking tired and unamused in the soft but unflattering light that accentuates every wrinkle, zit, crease and crater. Some try to sleep it off while others stare mindlessly into mobile phones. A little girl explains to her father what her plush rainbow llama is thinking about as it hops around the surface of her backpack on some imaginary adventure.

The doors open and a crush of people frantically smushes their way in, their programming winding them up to be ready if anyone has anything to say about where they chose to stake their claim.

Me, I sit here in the corner seat observing, chronicling the daily commute as if I am not a part of it, because it helps me cope with the fact that I am just one of millions doing the same thing this morning and there is nothing special about me.