When the train stops, time stops; that’s what they say around here. Worlds end and the unimaginable begins. We are smoked out into knowledge from the dark and the dust.
But we are inconsistent, hypocritical, shallow. In other cities the same trains stop and the same people wait, forever at the platform. Frozen in grief as the world flashes by in a crimson kaleidoscope of glass shards.
We file by as events parade past – escalators to opposite outcomes.
This afternoon I found one of your hairs on the floor. I picked it up. But you are no longer here.