Trapped within the metal bullet, people cram together like sardines in a tin. Personal space no longer exists in the cramped confines of the tube and you find a familiarity with the person next to you’s body that you probably wouldn’t on a first date. I wonder how a claustrophobic would be in this situation.
Looking around, I think I have found the perfect candidate to observe. He is tall, well dressed in his casual wear, leather jacket over jeans and plaid shirt; a beanie hat the only obscurity. His eyes are fixed on a central point, so intense his focus that if I had a better angle in which to look on, I swear that his eyes would be crossed. His mouth moves feverishly as if in frantic prayer and sweat beaded his forehead like small pearls as he rocked slightly to console himself. Then his head turns and the illusion’s dispelled as in his ear is a headset.
To be honest, it makes more sense for a claustrophobic to walk above ground and as I stand with some guy’s knuckles pressed against my ass. I envy them.

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