Each morning I leave my house just before 7am. My street is quiet, apart from on Mondays and Thursdays when huge crows loudly discuss the best ways to rip open the garbage bags that have been left out on the street for collection. At exactly 7am, the security shutters of an ATM open by themselves, a mechanical whirring that for me signals the start of the day. I pass my neighbourhood clinic, bakery and supermarket; all closed except a little shop selling tofu, whose owners must have been up since daybreak. I reach the station, just in time to catch my train at 7:05am, where I will transfer onto another train a few minutes later. I board the train in the same carriage every day and see the same faces. I know to stand in front of the guy wearing the grey tracksuit bottoms and face mask because he will stand up at the next stop and I can sit down. If someone is standing in front of him already, not to worry, I have a backup: a tall guy with a thin face who I know will stand up two stops later. Our lives connected each and every day, without them even knowing. Or maybe they do. Maybe they know me as the guy who stands in front of them on the train every day, waiting for a seat. Maybe they are writing about me right now.