miles away from his mother's culture

Young. Asian. Pacing across Geneva train station's main hall in an acutely self-conscious business-like manner. Heels clicking. Shoes pointed. Slick grey trousers. Custom-fitted cashmere coat with a fur collar. Silk paisley-patterned neck scarf. And a side parting which would have made a British headmaster weak at the knees.

a fleeting thought

If she's got breath, it must be bad.

you can't stop beauty

In the midst of destruction, still a flower is blooming.

God he made my day!

I was sitting drinking a coffee under the veranda in the train station watching the passers by passing by. Watching all the blacks, and greys, and browns and beiges cross the street, get onto buses, shout abuse to hurried car drivers and spit the night's fag slime onto the pavement. When a distinguished man in a red béret and a red coat lined with red fur walked past. He was talking to another man walking beside him, when my red coat caught his eye and, between two words, he found the time to wink.

...and she wasn't a member of the staff

Sunday afternoon. A warm day outside. Picasso inside. And a woman sitting in the basement of the Art Gallery knitting a pair of socks.

a walk on the wild side

Little man with a briefcase. Clutching onto your past. Years beyond retirement. Tottering along in your beige raincoat, your grey trousers, your brown shoes and a head polished with baldness. Too frightened to stop and imagine that there could be something else. Too frightened to stop and see what you have lost.

what would they have thought 100 years ago?

Two young boys standing on a station platform. One of the boys is holding a slim rectangular object the size of a playing card, that he keeps on tapping with the tips of his fingers. There's a wire coming out of it, which splits into two in its middle. One of the ends disappears into the right ear of one of the boys. The other vanishes into the second boy's left ear. Both boys are moving their head rhythmically to and fro.