The only source of light is a mellow glow on a metro head. Whether bald, strawberry blonde or redhead, the light shines through on top of the dome.
But there’s also a type of soft glow of that keeps you awake. It’s the strange glow of stoic pride that screams with confidence ‘I got this.’
Stay the course, sitting among the living glow of neighbors, tethered to the sterile glow of handheld devices, all the way underground into the train’s magnetic flashlight.
The glow of independence, the weird-colored glow of elegant ideas, all arrive trademarked by the fluorescent glow of the train’s exit. The powerful glow ends. Doors open.
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