A few nights ago, I dream that I am running alongside a sleek train that glows in foggy night. The silver-bullet is quiescent, mumbling sleepy-giant noises as sweat-sticky streams of people flow from it during an evacuation for some unknown reason. But I don't give a shit about danger, as I sneak unto the train; I am looking for something. And there it is - my belongings: suitcases and clothes and books scattered along the aisles, worndown by the years that I have not known yet, years of going-away and going-somewhere and, maybe, maybe, return.

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