This is what happened: Rockridge at 23:13

I love Rockridge Bart. It is my favorite platform for public transportation by far. I hate waiting, you see, I despise and fear the anxiety of unknowing, I am paralyzed by uncertainty. I am jolted by the sudden windy roar of arrivals in underground stations, though I've had minutes to expect the next train's arrival as announced on impartial red lights like reverse raindrops.

I hate airports and never showing up at the right time, always unmercifully early, or in one case, unforgivingly late. There is nothing in-between, no small window of perfect timing that makes you feel like God has blessed your journey, your commute now a pilgrimage as you walk uninterrupted, with purpose, from the bus down the stairs through the turnstile down the escalator into the welcoming open doors of the right-destination train and the doors beep as you cross the gap and close immediately because finally you are here and now they can leave.

At Rockridge, freeway traffic muffles the train's electric harbinger with its own irregular cadence of rumbles and gravel. When the train (SFO/Millbrae) is still a couple of minutes away, you can see it approaching silently, crawling along the center of the freeway, each section jostling and following one another like an impossibly large and fast mealworm. It is here. I am gone.