Quiet and hooded, his eyes stared out, small hands
 make patterns on the window. Body shifting on wood,
 dog outside the door, flickering memories as trains
 maneuver in the old men's eyes. Forever part of a sleep-
 ing world, waiting for him [bad word]  Lost dreams of
 childhood forgotten like hope. These lives are grey
 stones made for cemeteries, this time the victim is
 desired, like misery. He stepped down from the train,
 dust on road and clothes, across the way a boy was
 grinning, hard-on obvious in torn grey trousers
 inherited from an earlier victim of the white horse.
 Filing past the flowers and signs full of dreams,
 light of night filtering where woof tiles slipped,
 into that darkness. Each ritual makes demand, a hope-
 less coil of expensive death affirming our exeistence.
 The direction never changes, never falters. Along
 those derelict lines lines to journey's end. Small hands
 smear juice on flesh squeezing tight crinkling of
 skin against worn eyes. There is no need of light.
 Somewhere, in the secret cathedral, small movements,
 the whole area covered in sheets of snow, pitted by
 huts. He had no expectations, there was no reason,
 breathing short as the text on the wall. Whenever the
 dog moved, the night trembled, shimmering like water
 moved by leaves in a forest. Marks of cold spray in
 the dust, as in the future faded by choice. Our appetite
 for miracles is not enough. Here, only animals
 remain, immaculate, seduced by pain. Ending fear into
 specters of [bad word]  Floor stained with patients. The
 moment of least action. He moved like a rat [bad word]  toward the sheets of snow, awake and empty, like an
 old house, the place where all dreams meet. "He was
 grinning before he jumped".
 Las night the boy came. Open arms. Black hair.
 Strong. Empty pale face. volunteer. Unsure of why
 he came. Seduced by pain. faded painting. Waiting
 for release, he blinked, looked up at the ceiling,
 let out a tiny gasp praying for oblivion.
 No engines anymoore. The machine engine's stopped. No
 ghosts of death playing in the grass. Just simple, as
 you would expect. No physical core. No smiles of love
 from pitted carriages. Just an empty town. Derelict.
 No way to identify. Sound playing across skin like
 fingers. Just as ampty as flesh. What do you want?
 Nothing in particular. No reason at all. Just a noise
 of dreams at the door. Just as before. Did you see
 that?
 This is the place where all roads meet, the place
 where all is the secret. The Place where time stands
 still in [bad word] of night and love [bad word] will
 in the presence of light. I never want to leave. I
 never want to leave. I never want to leave.