They travel from grayness to grayness, the trains. The concrete block under legs are cold, and the fogs chills my shoulders, but still I sit. Waiting for I don't know what, but wanting to see the trains, traveling from place to place. Stopping with me, going from me. Places that aren't here, that don't exist inside my fog. But the trains connect us. They tell me my little bubble in fog is connected to something bigger, my cold legs touch concrete that is part of a bigger world.
A few damp sheets of paper blow by me, falling over the lip of the cliff and spilling down onto the track, a meager waterfall of thought, words on a page. Plastered on the rail now, this trumpet of human wit or sorrow, of little value once it's been copied a thousand times and rinsed in the rain that falls on all of us.
Here I am, circling on a flying horse, alone.
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