sad

You were huddled in a corner of Geneva train station. Between two pillars. Facing a wall. To avoid looks, you had turned your back to the outside world. No one could see how old you were. You could have been 20. You could have been 80. Two policemen were standing a few metres away. Thousands of people were milling around the central hall. All with something to do. Or somewhere to go to. Far too busy to see you. All you wanted to show was the back of you hunched on a wheelchair. In an exhausted waxed coat, a wild beard as long as your sadness and piles of bags with your belongings neatly attached to the sides.