Road lights floating like fireflies past the reflections of passengers reading dog-eared paperbacks, others pushing their hands through their hair in sheer frustration at the current situation they’re in, and a precious few’ve got no problems at all, or atleast, no visible ones, kicking their feet in time to tunes plugged into their pockets. Giant diesel engine chugs and chews and spews us forward forever away from what just was. People start to fan themselves, others fall asleep. In the dim cabin light I can make out second hand headlines of yesterdays news marked with today’s date, with columns on crimes that could not be prevented only watched, and alcohol ads that make me thirsty for the quench and numb, and little bi-lines about something that somebody somewhere cares about, but not me. Stop, fake sleep and listen to the sounds all around. The engine roar, the slip sound of swishing undistinguishable middle aged lady conversation, the rustling of plastic, papers, the crushing of a aluminum can, leather straps and the creaking of a handbag. Sometimes it’s easier just to close your eyes.
Train Trip to the Country