Mole stands on the U-Bahn platform, his leg jiggling. The place reeks of sweat, damp woollen uniforms and thick coats pressed together, and the sour remains of spilled Bratwurst grease but he no longer dreams about food. His choked sobs lost in the symphony of a city alive and on the move. Its tunnels reek of overly damp concrete and machine oil. The exhaled metallic breath and distant lights in the dark tunnel grow larger.