Every weekday before dawn the platforms begin to fill. Commuters (11) toward the same three doors, though the rest of the train is half empty. A quick (12) at a phone screen replaces conversation, and by seven the carriage is silent. Some passengers have (13) on the same seat for twenty years and feel robbed if a stranger takes it. Fares have (14) since the line was extended, yet the trains are more crowded than ever. City planners say the real (15) is not money but time: nobody will walk ten extra minutes to a quieter station.
My flat is on the fourth floor of a building with no lift, and the restaurant downstairs sells (16) until midnight. Friends ask how I sleep. The truth is that noise becomes ordinary; what I could never get used to was the (17) left in the stairwell every Sunday morning. Our (18) finally put a camera above the door, and the problem (19) within a week. City life is a series of small agreements like this one. You give up silence and space; in return you can buy noodles at two in the morning and (20) ever need a car.