Written by Jacob Ibrag
I’ve asked for permission to not care. I’ve asked for acceptance in a
place that does neither. The orange chairs chase the yellow ones through
a tunnel. I sit next to an old man who’s head is rested upon his shoulder. Eyes
scatter across obscure advertisements and peoples feet. The stops get shorter
and space becomes limited. We’re all the same now, waiting and stitched.
Photo by Finn Skagn