Living at the first stop and choosing the "wrong" train--choosing one with a seat by the window but sacrificing motion to do so. 20 minutes later still sitting in the station, in my window seat, on a stationary train. Selfish and lazy, not the real go-getter type, me--more inclined to choose the wrong train if the "right" one (leaving sooner) is crowded, looks noisy, or has air brakes that squeal. I don't see any point in doing this today, writing aimlessly, as I make this meager tardy show of fealty to the workplace, the employer; except that I've got dinner plans in town that draw me in, so I might was well go to work, too. Today I'll finish reading Volume 2 of Les Misérables (I almost did it yesterday but stopped halfway through the last chapter, unready to leave it). Do I wish I could be cloistered or am I anyway--and this "commuting" some state between hypnosis and the discipline of prayer; lonely but so, so not alone, my eardrums scraped as other women's favorite "songs" escape their earphones. Men bellow, sneeze; a baby shrieks. Like knees on a cold stone floor my senses grind against Wednesday morning; I've forgotten my faith, all I feel is discomfort. Sister thinks: I should have been a litigator!