As I sit in the echoing compartment, the seats are plush remnants of style that never found a clear purpose.
I hear the whispers of nameless travels - shoes under seats, forgotten pages, an occasional metallic plaint.
It becomes hard to decide—are you seated correctly, legs crossed, beneath the flickering fluorescents, or lost in thought, fracturing the mundanity into whispers of parallel temporary realities?
The car vibrates with the stories of strangers enunciated only in their forgotten echoes: names unspoken, destinies brushed aside like forgotten tuning forks.
Combustion forces, rhythmic sighs, the slumbering giant clanking against the mile markers, tales of expansive dreams wrapped in steel and curious inscriptions:
Do we ever really arrive, or simply pause briefly on our path to nowhere, amidst tentative journeys scattered like seeds?
Shadows stretch and contract along the aisle, dance in optimized obsolescence. Crumples talk unto creases, color saturates yet remains undetected below the tactile surfacing.
Listen now: rhythmic clicks interspersed with the muffled sigh echoes truncating silence, giving rise to spectral insinuations of nameless reflection.
Wander forward:
Forgotten Rails |
Spectral Line |
Yellowing Cathedrals