The Conductors words resonate within. “Next stop for . . .” and then your name is announced.
As the train slows, you look out the window at your ‘stop’ with increasingly extreme concern.
A decayed skeleton of an oasis, void of water. Trick mirrors further disguise what reality remained. Everything mentally illegible.
Outside, a gnawed bone. The winter of confusion. Standards of imagination at their lowest levels. Mirages of depression and deception.
Silent prayers – unable to be formulated.
Was the train on the wrong track? Were you on the wrong train?
There’s a seat on the other side of the train – forever close. You move to it and sit down. Looking out that window you catch a glimpse of your reflection.
The train doesn’t stop.
The Infinite 