The wailing escalator at Tenley

An entrance to the Metro at Tenley is carved beneath an apartment building that used to be a home improvement store. The moving steps groan against the constraint of metal sides. Tired, I sometimes think, of bringing commuters to their work or towards their homes, but never themselves arriving, a doom of perpetual circles.

And so from the darkness of the entrance comes the endless wail, complaint against drudgery. Or a sound of whales, submarinal or subterranean babble not meant for eavesdropping, but always heard. Each morning at 5:20 I run up Tenley's hill. I hear the reverberation through my headphones and wonder how those who dwell above do not sleep troubled dreams, so much metal kvetching.

This morning on the way to work I saw the man who gives free newspapers at the entrance to the Metro. He was dancing. He said the wailing was a rhythmn, and that we needed to be cheered by it.