He pulled out a plastic bag — could’ve been mistaken for a fancy glass case — clumped out the sticky tobacco and rolled it tight in the rolling paper, the musty smell of BART floating around him like raw, space junk-contaminated atmosphere, the yellow train electric light floating all around …

He rolled the cig with a 15 percent twist — imagined a buzz, screwing itself along. Couldn’t help but think about the clumpiness of pot compared to the sticky, syrupy tobacco.

On the seat closest to him, facing out, sat a mother and little girl — about 2 or 3 years old — in orange-pink stockings, her body resting into mom’s, feeling the comfort of the world. A heartbeat, full warmth of a body, neck curled.

A pair of video cameras excite the whole place; a bright light, powered by 6 AA batteries exposed on the back of the multi-LED stage lighting, casts a “clean, well-lighted place” comfort all around.

Coupled with the purple-grey middle-late evening light suffused through the place’s transom windows, the activity in the place, coupled with the camera crew, offered a frozen-in-time, pre-fatigued spark.

A clump of dying flowers sat on the countertop.