sometimes i still think about the mathematician

The mathematician was on the train formulating differentiated equations. His mind was twirling through realms of integrals and display register number, popping up like one armed bandit cherries and fizzling past. He was not paying attention to the screech-stop brakes and the stale faced commuters, the frayed advertisements for dietary supplements, travel insurance and open university learning courses. The mathematician was bored with the mundanities of people and life. He was abstracting his existence into a number based paradise, where his only interactions were with logical form. He felt the thrills of the infinite quivering through his cord clad thighs, as he scribbled lines of eternal proofs in the dissolving pocketnotebook. Elsewhere, crusty businessmen evaluated buttocks in pencil skirts, gum popped, the Sisters of Mercy screeched loudly through headphones and the elderly conductor crushed his way through the centre aisle, clawing out his wizened fingers for tickets.