Can’t sleep.
A train, the train from where I have departed, or did the train depart from me? The train runs through the tracks on my brain. The train has come from Hamlet’s Denmark, and through to the Loman’s house. The train stops in the cellar, dark.
Another train, twin to my own, docks next door, in a familiar port, a port I walk through every day of my life. The port is disturbed as the train docks, unused for the most part, run down and barren. But thousands of faces spill out, roaming, humming, hovering.
From my train, also, faces spill. They speak to me with closed mouths, all at once, and I am undone. Calendars are broken by voices, alarm clocks feel pressed to run further out of reach.
Juice.
I am reminded of the hands that have traced faces. A cloth of man steps from the locomotive. I am watching lines spew from it, lines that have not been drawn, lines of which there can be only one with is true.
And then a charge runs through me, and I am not alone anymore. I know that he has felt what I have. The cloud has touched both of our clocks. The train has run through both of our light bulbs.
Smoke.
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