Track marks

I love hearing the train thunder and roar along the tracks, its lonely horn tooting a sad little cry as it storms along the edge of town, briefly blocking the silhouettes of gum trees and powerlines, while sharp glints of moonlight glance off the top of carriages and tarp-covered freight cars.

I lay in the dark, my arms folded behind my head, eyes closed, ears open to the thunking rhythm and squealing energy. My heart races as the sound takes me back to late, dark nights in dank, drippy train stations across suburbs and cities and identities.

I like these country trains best. The silent fields, native animals and weary truck drivers the only witnesses to its journey,as the train thunders through towns and cities, villages and nowheres, mostly, around here, while the moon looks down upon it.

As I lay in the dark, I envy that train, getting to see the trees and the fields where the clouds part long enough to allow the moon to expose them.

If I wasn’t terrified of serial killers, I would get my licence just so I could go and hang out, alone, in the bush, staring at trees and bugs and dirt, and not having to explain myself to the people who want to know why?

There is no why. I just really like staring at shit.

Unfortunately, there’s that whole thing about me having the very worst sense of direction in the history of mankind, so going out in the bush, alone, is probably the very worst thing I could do, unless my goal was to: probably break my ankle and then get eaten alive by ants.

Which it is not.

Of course, I digress, and thus take you back to trains:

Toot toot, motherfuckers.

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