Chu Chuus

Somewhere over there, beyond the empty warehouses and the packed cemeteries and penitentiary, the train whistle calls to me. It always heads east and east is where I point my finger whenever someone asks me where 'home' is. The conductor blows his whistle 9 times before he leaves town perimeters - as if each whistle symbolized each hour it would take me to drive back to my doorstep.

The light is fading and so is my energy. Nothing, not even the pressure of tomorrow, can keep me from just. resting. my head. upon. the pillow. For a few short moments. It would mean the world to me. I will rest until the next train comes. Not a moment longer, I swear, mom.