To Train.

On a train. Mark chooses To Train. To blink in an out of existence. To pulse through suburbia. To pulse with mechanised momentum towards a pre-determined destination. To drift from gossip to conversation to tinny death metal to sleepless sighs. Sleeeep don’t visit, so he chooookes on the sun and the daaaaays blur into one[1]. He grows old, he grows old. He wears the bottoms of his trousers rolled[2].

[1] Welcome Home, Son by Radical Face. 2008

[2] The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S Eliot 1920

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2 comments

  1. I like this a lot. Eliot is one of my favorites, so it’s nice to see his work live on in yours. I like the observations here. I think it would be interesting if you rewrote this (as an exercise, not to replace this) and tried to use language that mimicked the machinations of a train. That would be awesome!

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