Crushing, wrinkling. Sliding my cheek and landed on my arm, which rests against the window, but it does nothing to see. The shadows have reversed their ink and the world is blind. The train for hours not mark off. Wrinkling. The skirts of my coat wrapped around me like the night. What is there to do other than look for a tiny spot in the brackets of the trip?
(There should have blooms possible openings in the suspension of that time, this trip should be crossing geographical representations incredibly accurate, colorful scenes of stunning, dreams should grow in abundance in the day and the expectation and impatience, and it is still nothing.)
In the hallway, two children play, inaccurate movements, and unsteady gait, and their laughter, cascades of laughter, and light pushing. Then return to their seats. Sit. Faces aligned. Next to each other. We are all sitting next to each other. Behind each other. Alignment. Sometimes a box is empty. A traveler is not mounted, remained ashore.
(It should be possible to blend into the night, joining the dark bewitched, bewitching darkness, he should be given to us to breathe the smell cold, damp, fog and low clouds mingle with the night involved in our eyes, the fog of our breath, our track fleeting breath, melt the tiny exhalation of ourselves to ∞.)
Instead, we negotiate with e ∞ awkwardness, in a tiny An opportunity to hold our legs, in our neck of the angles of attack that would allow the dreams that do not permit. The head tilts. Dreams flicker, angles close, head leans, the world moves forward, and under the closed eyelids, it would be almost possible to seek the possibility of Ulysses, but again, the body falters and consciousness returns, binds around the world. Confinement.
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