Radlická

People file out brisk but orderly from the train station and head straight to the office building across the square. It's as if the revolving door is an extractor fan, gently sucking all the people to their desks. The whole building resembles a machine, not something sooty, Victorian and cruel, rather a stylish over-blown polished gadget with silver grills, wood paneling and gleaming balustrades for handles. It looks so fresh and ultramodern that despite its size it would be discarded within a year.

The commuters don't suit their stride. They're not worker ants encased in black suits. One of them has a suede cowboy hat and matching vest; others are in puffy bundas in preparation for the weekend or just because its cold and these jackets are comfortable; some are dressed for Friday night drinks. A couple of them have suitcases on wheels. One guy strays from the line as he reads a book. Only a skater rolls against the flow. He merely adds a long invisible score beneath their movement.

Yes, it's morning. A deviation from one of the rules, but an excusable and even inevitable one. The days are getting shorter and the thought of being alone at an unfmailiar metro station in the dark is not appealing. Plus a different time will bring a change of focus, though at the moment it seems are more interesting in the evening when there is that great collective release.

Anything of interest has given the station a wide berth. I can understand why. In the five years I've lived here, I have never been to Radlická. If it weren't for the blog, I imagine many more years would pass before I would visit. Apart from the office block and a small gilt statue, which I assume isn't real gold, there's not much.

Across from the office block is a passage way. On its walls tags and graffiti compete for space. Through the intersecting curves is the ubiquitous 'Fuck Off'. How much longer before it loses all meaning? In the future it will be an everyday expression. We'll send it to each other on greeting cards. Why not? It's on t-shirts. I just hope we will be able to emote future swear words so well.

Some bold soul has also professed his love for a girl called Šarka (Miliju tě, Šarko). I wonder if Šarka will be able to find this declaration of love among the tangle of characters.

I went through the passage earlier. It seemed the least popular route and remembering my Frost I decided to go that way before heading back to write. At Radlická neither path was worth taking. Beyond the passage is another modern building with fixed shutters, which are no doubt fixed at the optimal angle to reduce the sun's rays in summer, but which deny the tenants the opportunity to throw them open. It is a rigid shell, something to occupy not live in.

Around the corner from this building, I found a dead cat. Its fur was matted with melted frost. I am perhaps too inquisitive by nature and stopped to have a look. On hikes, I often stop to point out some carcass to G., who is far down the path, determined not looking back. The cat has no visible signs of injury. This was when I felt horrified. It couldn't have been a car. The only question was who? It was that feeling that I had when I came to sit here and start today's record.

This is the furthest I've been in the direction of Zličín along the yellow line, which I should refer to as Line B, but never do and so confuse most people when I discuss the metro with them. Everyone knows it by the letters. I can only remember the colours.

I wonder if being here only highlights the artifice of this blog. Other people write about the things they really experience. I place myself in an unnatural situation. Most Fridays before this I would be at home or today, I would have slept in – or read, rather than leave the house to come here. I'm not a part of this. I'm watching from a distance, a distance I don't know yet how to bridge.

I want to achieve this end without stepping out of the conditions I've set myself. To bastardize a saying, it is the frame that makes the picture and frames tend to be precisely measured and suited to some purpose. My frames are the stations, for the moment any way. They liberate me because they bring me to places I wouldn't ordinarily come to. The dilemma is if I should be part of the drama I see unfold and certainly in a way that doesn't involve some act of bad faith – no interviews, no spectacle.

A group of pre-school aged children pass holding hands and wearing bright pastel winter jackets. They also go via the passage way. I wonder how their teacher will explain the cat to them.