Probably on of the most dehumanising things about transit, aside from being herded like cattle into large tin cans with wheels, is living in bizarre fractions of an hour. You find yourself thinking things like, "Oh, crap: it's 7:13! I'll never make it to the corner for the 7:37, but with luck the 7:43 trian will get me to the 8:22 bus so I'll only be 6 minutes late."
Nonetheless, weekend go by too damn fast. My reason for singing this common refrain, however, is not the usual one: my problem is not having enough time to get my work done. My "day job" exists to top up my income and provide a stable environment in which to do my work and for Elaine to do her work.
On my way to the SkyTrain this morning I crossed paths with one of the hundred richest men in Canada; he noticed me, looked down, and changed his path to avoid me. Me, I was ready to smile and say, "Hi, Al."
The base images for two more of the illustrations:
