The landscape changes shape, changes colors. It is fall in the country. A terrible cold grabs hold of my head and rattles my lungs, but my mind rocks content along the railroad tracks: on a train you are always moving, always immobile, always safe.
In my dream I held his hand and somehow it was okay. They speak of houses and watching their children grow up and I don't know who I am in their eyes. Sometimes I fear there is too much truth and not enough veiled filters. The maple trees are red now. It is fall again and no one knows where it ends.
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