Yeshua shifted into the cramp cubicle, the sepia yellow dominating and also receding at the same time. The walls were peeling off like a snake’s skin, revealing the grainy cement beneath it. Lights had been left on for far too long, and most of all, the stall was hot. It was creeping down his neck, and made his hair sticky. He tore a few rolls of paper off the bacteria-ridden handle. Damp toilet roll dabbed at his cut, removing the blood and hopefully keeping the wound clean. The glass had been on the floor, Yeshua remarked, which meant it might as well have been covered with every known disease to man. 

He was in a rush. If his guessing was right, the stop would be coming up any second now. Looking down to his magnum opus, he tried to remove all visual information from the accident. He scrubbed and rubbed and eventually ripped off his trousers in a fit of muscle-worked rage. The front of the trousers was hot, like an iron, and had been worn away to just a thin sheet. Thumping his forehead, he scrunched his hair into a ball and wish he could throw that in the corner, too. 

Knock on the door. It surrounded him, pinned him to the ground, and froze him. The entire carriage, the stall, the outside world, his mind, was silent. 

Another knock. His tongue begged for action, his feet begged to run, while his eyes remained fixed on the door. His glasses fell onto his nose. 

The door crept open, against the heat. His foot flung forward. It smashed closed, catching the intruder’s fingers at the closing bang. 

“Ah, jeez! Sawrry bud, make shurr ya lawck it next time, OK?” 
The murmurings trailed off as he felt pressure lift up from his shoulders. His hair flopped down once again. 

He had nothing else to wear. 

Through the  misted window, where one would expect the Pacific wildlife, he noticed that the countryside and desert was devoid of all colour. The tidal forces of the carriage had ceased carrying him. They had left him alone, in his boxers, in this cubicle. They were waiting for him. 

He had carried nothing else into the cubicle apart from himself, and now his trousers were truly ruined. The only pair was in his travel bag. He heard the commotion of every passenger heaving themselves off, thudding like a herd of wildebeest to the watering hole. Yeshua waited in angst, in denial. 

The toilet flushed behind any unwanted remnants. 

The door, with the smallest of moments, became open, and the strangely naked being crept out of it. 

Outside, the brilliant blue sky was smiling down on the world, the sun so clearly unaffected by personal troubles. It remained steadfast above the fast-forming queue, ready to be taken to the New Anchorage base, wherever it may be. Wildlife was far behind them, but still visible, as even the most average birds flew in the sky, their deformities obsolete and unnoticeable. 

In the last few seconds before perfection, Yeshua triumphantly strolled out of the tram, his eyes intent on his soon-to-be unit. He lifted his head in visual and audible range, smiling.  

[color=92278f]“Oh dear, oh dear, I shall be too late! Yeshua Horowitz, NC pilot of the Anzu.” [/color]