As the train rushes towards its destination she falls silent. Its going to be another hour or so till I get where I want to go. "Sure sure," I promise the girl with blond hair. shes goes back to her book. I can't seem to take my eyes off of her. Who is she? Her hair hangs in greasy strands like it was washed with way too much soap. Her eyes are a simering dark blue that reminds me of the sun sparkling on the surface of the sea. She wears a knee length skirt made of some sort of maygikal looking fiber. It glimers a dark blue to match her ever changing eyes. She looks out of place on the busey train headed to god knows were. I gaze around, if she wore a miniskirt and a tank top would she look "in place?" Its not her clothing I think to my self. Its her somehow she doesn't belong. I glance down at my faded jeans and my plain blouse. I wonder if I look like I belong, me a 15 year old runaway from the weathyest family in all of Chicago. A daughter of The Mob? I cant tell if she should be a mobsterit sounds like another book I resently read.