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darkness closer to the front of the train. Having nothing
better to do than bleed, I decided to follow them.
The second I moved from my seat, I knew I was dreaming.
My body fell into a current of invisible movement that
pushed me forward. As I glided, a group of strange young
women standing on both sides of the aisle turned to look
at me. Every one of them was raven-haired and possessed
of the lightest blue eyes—glimmering beads of water that
defied gravity through sheer force of beauty. The tallest of
the group, whose height was only slightly less than my own,
spoke to me. “Have you any idea who conducts this train?
As many times as I’ve tried to ascertain that fact, I’ve never
learned.” Her eyes were rainstorms. I could hear the water of
weeping skies falling across a world of tender young leaves.
I almost forgot to respond.
“I have no idea,” I said, “but I’m sure they’re competent.
Certainly, you have no cause for concern.” My words
seemed lost to the rain, and I was curious if I’d spoken
at all. The woman smiled at me, as if I’d given precisely
the answer she desired, and quickly withdrew behind the
shadows of the train. Before I could begin to contemplate
what had happened, invisible hands pushed me onward, far
away from the women, where I felt compelled to refocus
my attention upon a line of wandering shadows. In service
to my new obligation, I observed that after each shadow
crossed into the next car, the darkness beyond the threshold
deepened, gaining the appearance of a massive hole that
extended beyond the dream of the train. I drew up behind
the last shadow in line and waited my turn to move into the
next world.
The opening did not lead to some other dream, but
into a supernal synthesis of darkness and silence which I
theorized to be the product of the shadows merging together.
The hybrid substance approximated the closest thing to a
fully realized oblivion, and all of it stitched together from
the rootless bodies of sacrificial shades. Within that near-
106 | Mark Anzalone