Assembly Lines

It's a Wednesday summer afternoon in the underground shopping arcade at Bay and Bloor. The midday is alive and functioning. In front of me are two moving escalators. The right side goes up. The left side comes down. They remind me of assembly lines. People coming down from the left side have light blue and peachy tennis shirts, spotty tans, puffy chests, slippery contours, flowery sandals, ruddy faces, meaty arms that permanently hang outwards, shaved heads, greasy heads, silky textile tucked and folded under diagonal straps, a visible smell of deodorant and sex. People going up the right side are also jaunty and colourful in their own ways, but to where they are ascending I don't know. The same for those descending down here, where they come from I don't know. From my angle, the ceiling blocks the view, I cannot tell.