This Cellophane Scene R.J.S.
There is something about this scene reminds me of a train whistle splitting oil gray nights of summer in a town maps have omitted. The tracks bow and flex at the weight added to their own cars swaying back and forth empty, unnamed.
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Pushing ever forward colliding with the air in front of them the clacking in time like a headboard banging in some rented room forgotten like we forget the intrusion once the gates have lifted releasing us alone
