The train rocks lightly, whirring down the tracks at the speed of thought. As I scroll down my fluorescent screen, names appear and disappear, names of friends who still are, and those who are no longer. Faces of loved ones glow behind the glass, until—upon realizing that I cannot join them—they fade into their virtual void. But they are not real, I tell myself, because the ones I love would never smile like that, frozen in feigned carelessness; they would have too many worries to look so free. I look away as the pictures burn in the colourless flames of a single touch. Places I have never been to flutter into my mind as their still worlds glow with unnatural vibrancy. But the window there, obscured behind walls with other windows, that one, with its cream-coloured curtains that seem to sway in the winds of my imagination, that one might be real.