They walked past one another at the same speed, as if their moves were choreographed, though each had a hand to an ear, holding their individual electronic device at the most optimal angle for vocal expression, deeply absorbed in conversation to souls elsewhere -- but not to one another.

I took myself deep down to the depths of the gateway to the modern kind of hell. They require you to pay to enter and to make your passage these days; gone are the days of riddles by trolls or the wise old man who guards the boat and lets you cross if he deems you fit enough.

At the newsstand, an elderly woman tried her luck at the lottery, her forehead furrowed in concentration as she carefully scrubbed out squares with the edge of a coin, and I wondered for a moment if this were a modern kind of hope.

Whence comes this unconscious dance, that even chance is manufactured?

In the carriage everyone covered their ears against the noise, or to fill their heads with another kind of noise. Perhaps this is simply the modern idea of choice.