Terminus - Xtul

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 to come. 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 welcome. Floor stained with patients. The

moment of least action. He moved like a rat in rubble

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. A volunteer. Unsure of why

he came. Seduced by pain. A 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 the comfort of night and love becomes will

in the presence of light. I never want to leave. I

never want to leave. I never want to leave.