It is dark here, and my lines
The trains do pass.
There are signals and tables
When trains move over steel rails
The simplicity is deceptive.
Everything human needs tending.
The crazy people had a convention, people later said, and tried to laugh it off. But it was true.
Without prior advertisement, there took place one day in this town a chance gathering of the left-minded. It was a coincidental meeting of those who were famous in this town, prominent in their human loudness as the oblong fruit of retardation and cruelty, and of laughter. Everybody knew them. But nobody said so.
In this way they were ghosts, some of them. Or perhaps all of them. They were ghosts at very least in that nobody saw them. They had the meat of invisibility. And nobody noticed when they were gone, as they were never there to begin with. It is the trick of small towns.
Today, however, they were all here, recognizable as the single-walkers, those who owned the last four hours of the night. They were the bothersome ones who sometimes knocked on the door, loudly, as if to come home or to ask where lunch was, and who were then shushed away in no particular direction.