Traveling and daily trips around the city are sometimes in sync with the internal metronome. The pulse beats like drums, leading an entire unseen army into war, and the opponents are beyond the horizon. The wind puffs up the sails and quickens the pace.
Such memories are impossible to entirely erase. They survive on scavenged tickets and coupons. I'm digging through my pockets for a metro token to enter Khreschatyk station. There are numerous layers of stories, transfer schemes, and suburban lines running from Solnechnogorsk to Budva.