Trains
The sky is distant, vacant, as if it wants something to believe in. It's the mystery of public transport, sharing body heat with strangers. Frost at the side of the tracks. Bracken and glass. Morning.
At night I can almost believe that I'm somewhere else. Street lights are stars and we whiz past constellations; myself and a host of strangers, dim/bright light and murky upholstery, rattling doors and more distance than you can possibly imagine.
It doesn't last; and after all, it's not night. The sun is blue, the sky an empty hole. The towns have their back to us, foundations and concrete, iron and dirt.
At night I can almost believe that I'm somewhere else. Street lights are stars and we whiz past constellations; myself and a host of strangers, dim/bright light and murky upholstery, rattling doors and more distance than you can possibly imagine.
It doesn't last; and after all, it's not night. The sun is blue, the sky an empty hole. The towns have their back to us, foundations and concrete, iron and dirt.