transit

the train cuts relentlessly through the night, its headlights banishing away the darkness with the harsh glare of day -- of clarity, of truth, of unstoppable will. it is in a hurry to get there. inside, all is silent, and still. he looks out of the window, and sees nothing but his own face staring bleary-eyed back at him. he shudders. looking past his mirrored self he sees several other passengers, but they, like him, are alone -- suspended in their own space, their own thoughts.

purgatory must feel something like this. all of us coming from the same place, and going to the same place. all of us coming from totally different places, and going to totally different places.

she sang last night. no words, just that haunting melody while she gazed up past his face, almost as though he wasn't there. she had a beautiful voice.