It's the holiday season, and you don't have to check the calendar to know. The streets are empty, the train stations are deserted. There are no cars on the road and the air is the freshest it has ever been.
Sun splintered through the trees, softly scattered through a poor excuse of a morning fog.
There are two other men on the train. They look just as lost, staring into some undefinable space beyond the dusty windows. I read my book, turning the pages tenderly when words run out, cradling it as it if were a lifeline.
Posted by sniffles at December 31, 2001 09:20 AM