I saw something interesting on the train the other day. This guy, he made me fucking jump he was so tall. Here is the scene:

A long train worming its way through the bowels of Tokyo’s underground, alive with its own steel hum, swallowing distance. You you look up and see him—tall like a skyscraper lost in fog, elongating himself into myth. A man dressed to dominate the air above your head. Clothes spill off his limbs like drapes in a church. Was it a skirt? No, a monument to height itself. At first, he’s a goddamn colossus, brushing the heavens with his scalp, filling the whole carriage like that bit where Gandalf gets mad at Bilbo. Then your eyes adjust. Your synapses sync. He’s just tall—average tall—a cheat with a sleight-of-foot trick. Heels hidden, but not enough to escape your notice. The guy is no colossus, he is just a frilly lizard playing to his strengths. Those heels don’t fool anybody, mate.

Then it happens. Another man steps in. Bigger. A quiet titan in Converse thin as papyrus. He towers without trying, effortlessly sculpted by genetics and fate, a sculptor that always leaves the first dude’s shoes wobbling in dust. This second one doesn’t fake it. He carries his frame like an ancient king on a backpacker’s sabbatical.

Now the empathy kicks in, and it’s cruel. The tall poser, a lizard puffing its frill to look dangerous, just crumbles beneath the gaze of his better. He knows. You know. He’s invisible now—a stilt-walker toppled by nature’s true giants. And isn’t that the fucking metaphor? The way no effort can match the grace of those born to it, those who conquer by just existing. Heels or not, there’s always a taller shadow to obliterate yours. Always someone looking down at you without even noticing you’re down there trying.