I'm trying to think of something profound to write. Or, if not profound, simply not too inane.

The view from the train is dismal.

Perhaps it's not truly dismal. But it's not inspiring. After all, it's February. It's not the beauty of a fresh snowfall. It's brown, with sad bits of leftover snow clinging to the dirt, trying not to be blown away in the icey gale.

I just passed a car scrapyard. A monument to consumers. Bought it; used it; don't need it any more. Now we're passing a seeming graveyard for those portable signs that you see everywhere, telling you about events or deals that you're not interested in. It doesn't help with the dismal part.

The people on the train are not dismal, but they are self-involved. Like myself. These people could be friends. They could be exactly like the lively crowd of people I had around my dining room table last Saturday, laughing and joking, enjoying their own quite clever wit even as they realized that the wit declined as the drinking progressed. But I'll never know. These people will never be my friends. In part, because I'll never speak to them.

Now we're passing the backs of people's houses in a residential area. The fences are towards the train tracks. And when the fences are solid (not chain link), people store (or dump) all their unwanted items on the side of the fence that they can't see. Which is the side of the fence that I can see. Apparently, commuter trains are not planned to stake "the scenic route". I understand that - most people aren't looking out the windows anyway. They're reading, napping or typing.

Now we're passing an industrial area. Still dismal, but at least it's proof that people still work for a living. At least I assume so. The parking lot is empty. Hmmmm...

Now we're on a bridge, passing over a river. I guess the previous dismal scenery was an accident; mere chance. After all, they didn't go out of their way to make the river look dismal, and they could have. The river might have looked really nice, except that, oh yeah, it's February, and the river is frozen, and has that same leftover snow clinging to it in that same icey gale.

I'm warm in the train. Looking out at the gale, that's the good thing that I can say right now. Oh - except my right elbow. Because I am typing, my right elbow is pushed right up against the inside wall of the train. Apparently, with all the equipment and features the train has, insulation (or perhaps "enough insulation") is not included. The wall is cold.