Wheels turn like water through a pinhole and steam embalms our journey, seals our purpose, shields us for our last digression. Uncomfortably familiar, and somehow peacefully endured, our engine ignites and departs with reckless fury, stampeding into the tunnels ahead. The passage is dark, but the tracks will guide us.
I enter the gate and the earth trembles under a nervous crowd. Thousands upon thousands pound their way through the doors, each searching for the chance to escape his or her feelings of abandonment. At the opposite end of the station, alone, I fall beneath a wave of sadness as my eyes meet the sign that reads "tomorrow," but I climb aboard and hope for health.
Wheels turn like water through a pinhole. The bellowing clouds of steam, a sense of purpose, and a mirrored memory overwhelm me as the engine departs and the air begins to swim like bullets around the monstrous frame and steel exoskeleton of the carriage that harbours my otherwise timid existence. Pacing in an empty cabin, nervous and stagnant, I know the passage is dark, but the tracks will guide us.
The station stands upon the face of the horizon, a monument of breathtaking beauty and opportunity. Its walls shimmer like gold under the glare of the setting sun as the sound of passing trains rips the silence to shreds. I feel lost, and only a moment later nostalgic, reduced.
I enter the gate, and the earth stumbles under a frightened crowd. Alone, I climb aboard and hope for health.
Wheels turn like water through a pinhole. The engine begins to plow forward and the steam forms a cloud so heavy it could carry us home. Our purpose is dark, but history will guide us. Our history is dark, but purpose will guide us through this maze.