You start train hopping, hoping to find one with a destination promising enough you can stand the ride.
Each lawn, a palm reading: each house, a face. I am a back turning.
Know in your life one journey full of meaning and longing, the meanest kind of longing, that is the wish to turn back when you cannot.
Traveling distracts from meaningless journeys. To move is to be in transition, in neither one place nor the next. When transition is not pleasant, that is because it is change.
Once, pacing the street in the dark a big man just home from work took a fighter's stance with a How's it goin'? to let you know he saw you without trusting. You ducked in reply, he chuckled to drop his hands which means you flinched.
More than once the sky slept in its own pinks and gray while you watched. More than once dark warmed like the day from lights cloaked in dining room curtains and the moment took on your singular reflection.
