There’s a room under your room. That’s where they build things. That’s where they tinker.
There’s a cold under your cold. The one that means it’s not just seasonal. It’s colossal, universe-ending.
Behind the boards, through the heat, beyond your purpose, are things unthought, unbound, dark and dim but full, round, expanding, moving constantly with design.
I couldn’t see any of it because I was busy painting my nails. And you were scratching just beyond my hearing, begging to get out before they got in.
“I haven't seen the end of that one,” she says, “but I've seen enough to know I won't care about the ending.”
There's a train within that train, running the luggage racks, knocking bags off the tiny tracks and onto unsuspecting heads. But every train is a mystery, and recursive trains are like mysteries where the narrator is the murderer.
Some day I will talk to her about something other than sleep, maybe just before nodding off on her shoulder, 2000 kilometers west of here, on a train in the dark. You'll have shut up by then, I trust, and laid down yourself, in your place. And the growing, cobbling, industrious things will stay behind, below.
