Marston's Formula for Static Loading

The fibers of my pocket tickled the heads in my coins, and those coins pressed cold on my thigh.

The train and I moved heavily. 

Today, the world was slow. The world bared its details for the first time. Green sky. Young boys with silver hair. Blind woman singing. Legarda had the same storefronts and pedestrians, but they were not blurry anymore. There was no more spinning.

I have spent the past years in my head. Up in the clouds, down in the pits; everything else was a silhouette, until today.

It is a scary thing for a long-time wish to come true. You don't really know what to do with your hands.
Do you twist them over your head? Pull one finger, bite a nail? Lay them to rest? There is a giant sigh of relief, of course, but the weight of a question eventually, and inevitably triumphs over any other thought: well, what am I now to do with myself?

The cloud has passed over. Everything is clear. I have gotten what I wanted.

Now what?

Dream of better? What constitutes as "better"? What makes early, and what makes late? What makes a dream worth dreaming of?

I have passed three stations by now, and I am a little thirsty.