It is the morning of December 13. I have just wakened from a dream whose particulars I shall attempt to recount, before they fade beyond recall, and are lost.
I wait alone in a great trainstation-
A vaulted hall of marble columns,
gloomy, empty, echoing faintly
with announcements I cannot understand.
Some might be names of far destinations
punctuated by bursts of static:
shortwave radio broadcasts from
those far places themselves.
When I listen too closely,
try too hard to make out words,
columns waver, grow insubstantial,
and I must stop, look away,
think of nothing
until things settle again.
Pale sunlight slants from high dim windows
across cracked tiles, brings no warmth
to my upturned palm.
Dust motes dance, slow,
drift away into shadow.
I turn up the collar of my overcoat.
Someone has left a newspaper
on the bench beside me.
When I pick it up, a postcard falls
from its folds. Somewhere,
a telephone rings,
rings again...
I feel certain that this dream had only begun, and had I not been awakened (or so, at least, I believe I have- Yes, all is familiar; it seems certain)... Well, I cannot say. I can only hope that I may find my way, of another night, back to that station again.
© Mark Reep 2006
1 comments:
Have you ever seen Spirited Away by Hayao Miyazaki?
Part of it takes place in a deserted train station. If you've never seen it, try to get a copy. it's absolutely magical.
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