Time expands and contracts.  The rain streaks on the pane as the train gains speed, then droplets wriggle and search like eager sperm.  Stuffed clouds hang above the demure hues of the sun sinking into a beery stupor.  Everything is bleak and magical all at once.  Inbetween light, inbetween days, inbetween double glazing.

Rail lines are sketched hastily as dashes of light.  Marks made on the Earth beneath the gathering twilight.  The sonic conversation of the train.  The hooves, the whistles, metal talks to glass, glass to plastic, plastic to the everchanging airflow inside and out.  In my ears and in my spine.  My brain is a crossword with only gently penned-in answers that don’t connect with one another.

Almost before nightfall, the train pulls in to Brighton.  Brighton where the houses tumble on the hills…


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