Capital

The evening sun is warm, velvety like molasses: August sun. It hangs lazily near the horizon, licking the tree tops and trickling into the clearings in the woods. Everything is lush, delicious, rural. You manage to snag the last available window seat on an entire train, way up front, an insufferable group of college bros around you with their beer buzz and terrible choices in music. For a second you regret your treasure seat. 

But as the train rolls out of the station, as it flies past the Hudson River and lulls you into solitude, all the disturbances and annoying itches that exist without, begin to roll off your skin and onto the the tracks behind. The conductor walks by, a white-haired man with that twinkle in his eye and he looks just like one would imagine a conductor in a children's book, in a 1930's movie; he makes jokes at you and you just smile. America lies gentle outside your window. All is well.