Quiet and hooded, his eyes stared out, small handsmake patterns on the window. Body shifting on wood,dog outside the door, flickering memories as trainsmaneuver in the old men's eyes. Forever part of a sleep-ing world, waiting for him to come. Lost dreams ofchildhood forgotten like hope. These lives are greystones made for cemeteries, this time the victim isdesired, like misery. He stepped down from the train,dust on road and clothes, across the way a boy wasgrinning, hard-on obvious in torn grey trousersinherited from an earlier victim of the white horse.
Filing past the flowers and signs full of dreams,light of night filtering where woof tiles slipped,into that darkness. Each ritual makes demand, a hope-less coil of expensive death affirming our exeistence.
The direction never changes, never falters. Alongthose derelict lines lines to journey's end. Small handssmear juice on flesh squeezing tight crinkling ofskin against worn eyes. There is no need of light.
Somewhere, in the secret cathedral, small movements,the whole area covered in sheets of snow, pitted byhuts. He had no expectations, there was no reason,breathing short as the text on the wall. Whenever thedog moved, the night trembled, shimmering like watermoved by leaves in a forest. Marks of cold spray inthe dust, as in the future faded by choice. Our appetitefor miracles is not enough. Here, only animalsremain, immaculate, seduced by pain. Ending fear intospecters of welcome. Floor stained with patients. Themoment of least action. He moved like a rat in rubbletoward the sheets of snow, awake and empty, like anold house, the place where all dreams meet. "
He wasgrinning before he jumped".
Las night the boy came. Open arms. Black hair.
Strong. Empty pale face. A volunteer. Unsure of whyhe came. Seduced by pain. A faded painting. Waitingfor release, he blinked, looked up at the ceiling,let out a tiny gasp praying for oblivion.
No engines anymoore. The machine engine's stopped. Noghosts of death playing in the grass. Just simple, asyou would expect. No physical core. No smiles of lovefrom pitted carriages. Just an empty town. Derelict.
No way to identify. Sound playing across skin likefingers. Just as ampty as flesh. What do you want?
Nothing in particular. No reason at all. Just a noiseof dreams at the door. Just as before. Did you seethat?
This is the place where all roads meet, the placewhere all is the secret. The Place where time standsstill in the comfort of night and love becomes willin the presence of light. I never want to leave. Inever want to leave. I never want to leave.
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