He looked around the metro station, the same one he'd used almost daily for years. It was a lot busier today, but the crowds gathered without the usual pushing and shoving.

He glanced round at the various commuters and wondered what lay ahead for them. A couple of businessmen, a few children travelling to school for the week, the odd lawyer who'd decided to take public transport for a change.

This was a always a favoured pastime of his, imagining the lives of the people around him. Who would be getting that promotion? Who's hating every day at their job, yet unable to find anything better? Who's travelling into the city on their day off?

That's what he liked about the metro. Queues in particular: society's great leveller. It doesn't matter who you are or where you're going, we all start in the same place. The train doesn't arrive any quicker for a rich man than a poor man. It arrives precisely on time for everyone.

But not today, for some reason, he thought. The train was running late today. "If I wanted to wait this long I'd have taken the bus!" he chuckled. There was no reply, no one even noticed he'd spoken it seemed. "Typical, civility is a thing of the past, indeed!" he muttered to himself. Again, no one even looked at him. He gave up on trying to engage in any conversation and returned to watching the other people waiting on the platform.

He noticed a few of the younger passengers, schoolchildren mostly, with despairing looks upon their tear-streaked faces. 'Must be finals' week', he thought to himself, 'I remember the feeling.' If only they knew, it's just a couple of silly exams, it doesn't need to define their lives. Hell, he was never top of his class and his life turned out alright. He had a wife and a beautiful daughter, and he wouldn't trade them for a few extra letters on a piece of paper, or a few extra zeroes on his bank balance. He wasn't a rich man, but he was sure that he was a happy one at least. He thought about the other commuters, some of them much richer than him, but still waiting for the same train.

He heard a thunderous echo further along the tunnel. He stepped closer to the safety line in wait of the oncoming train. He took out his wallet and opened it to take out his metro card. That's when he saw it - the picture of them. Front and centre in his wallet. He knew now it was time to stop pretending.

He slumped back into his blanket against the platform column, held his head in his hands, and listened to the whistling and wailing coming from far above ground.

There's a mole that lives beneath my pillow. Raising dirt beneath my head, he keeps me awake at night. It doesn't stop in the morning either, as I find him tunneling through my thoughts all day.

"Why can't you leave me alone?" I say to him, "I just want to sleep."

"I'm only trying to help you," is his reply.

"Help me? I haven't slept in months!" I cry out helplessly.

And with that, the tunneling stops for a while. Yet sleep still won't find me without a fight, the mole has traipsed dirt through my mind that I try to clear up. A pointless endeavour, as I only shift it from corner to corner, or sweep it under the rug.

His hills remain under my pillow, I don't know how I'll shift them. But at least he is quiet for now.

That is, except for a distant rumbling that I feel in my bones. It's only a matter of days before he comes burrowing back to the surface. Just like always.