There's this beautiful tree nearby.

The subway station is, for the most part, anonymous.
A perfectly acceptable piece of modern architecture,
yet nothing extraordinary in its minimalism.
During the winter months, the sunlight is directed,
as if in a conduit, through a diagonal street.
The sunrises are particularly beautiful.
Cold blueish magenta tones, long projected shadows
on the pavement.
The wall of the station is painted white, and it
acts as a projection screen, receiving the most
extraordinary shadow plays.
The tree is naked, and during Spring, it starts
blossoming with leaves of a fresh vibrant cytric
green.

During Summer time, all the clorophyl suddenly
saturates the leaves, and a true Wayang kulit 
starts.

The nearby house projects a shadow that perfectly
bisects the quadrilateral white wall at 45 degrees.
And above that diagonal, the light passes through
each opening on the leaves, as if projecting the
outside world on a open-air camara obscura.
Or camara clara, Roland Barthes forgive me the
appropriation.

It all seems so... distant. Cyclic.
Yet the pieces don't fit. It's as if it's all but
a collection of shattered fragments and they were
never meant to make any sense. You're the one
trying to desperately make sense of it all.
Perhaps all is naturally discontinuous and
piece-wise.