Little remains at track. Creepers, winding where the graded bed has grown so dank and soft it sponges at my toes. I sift the ballast, lift a stone, a sour-milk stem clings to its crevices, clasped in a veinery of roots. Sections of supporting walls remain at street level. The paint flakes scab under my fingers. The sun scrambles for the girders and gridlocked cars reverberate. Their drivers are silent. The blackened bricks leave crumbs on my clothes. Shortly before electrification. When I was young. I curled my fingers off my ticket-stub and caught the slipstream of the shunting carriages. I smelt soot in my hair for days, sour as fear. You never looked behind.
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