The Train

There is a blood red sun on the horizon that I've tried capturing with my camera but can't do it justice. I sit here on this train, wondering if I am going to the right place, listening intently to the foreign announcements, trying to pick out a familiar word or place. The first time is always the hardest, after that it becomes monotonous and flaccid, losing adventure and wonder as time goes on and drags you with it. My heart was racing as I came to the train station and entered her slowly, carefully. Paused to get the right fit and proceeded clumsily to the platform. I missed something I know, couldn't find the right spot to validate my presence on this ride. Next time I will be more experienced, my virginity lost, just like this tired, used vessel I dart across the countryside on.

--She has seen her share of brothels, a whore to more powerful forces. Dirty streaks mark her face, her smell a cacophony of leftovers, gifts of the many men and women who carelessly leave behind a thing intangible. The only thing that makes her existence palpable, the running, running... fast, fast, faster, faster, take me away, away. Free! Free! Free! Scenes flash in colors, musty earth tones, bright greens and blurry reds. A flash of pink, orange and yellow. She tires after awhile, slows, catches her breath, crying when she stops. Waiting for the next customer to give her their burden. Selling herself again and again to the highest bid. 6,40 euros. If she stops, if she quits, they will put her away, never to be seen again. Never to see. So she endures her slow rape. Never raising her voice in protest. If she can just keep running maybe it will all fade away. They pay no attention to her, she is a means to an end. Nothing more to them than what she can give away. The service she performs expected. Satisfaction guaranteed: I have what you want.