Public transport is the government's charming way of simulating medieval punishment in a modern setting — a rolling tribute to inconvenience, body odour, and broken dreams. Every journey is a daily game of "Will I be late, or very late?" where your grand prize is the chance to stand next to a man eating boiled eggs directly out of his coat pocket like he's storing snacks for the apocalypse. The seats are either mysteriously damp or scientifically sticky, coated in a substance that should probably be studied in a lab, and the air smells like a rich blend of disappointment, expired sandwiches, and that one guy’s regrettable choice in cologne. Meanwhile, officials insist everything is “on track,” which is hilariously ironic considering the train hasn’t shown up in 25 minutes and the digital sign just reads “SORRY.” But this isn’t just a commute — oh no — it’s a test of endurance, personal hygiene, and your will to live, wrapped in the ambient scream of squeaky brakes and existential dread.