Golden headed reeds decorate my trip by train in those more remote places the imprint of civilization has not yet trampled, the train traveling place roads rarely go, crisscross, giving views of the back of houses, old graveyards or spaces like these filled with reeds and rusting fences, a lost word we could not reach by car or food or bicycle, an invisible world save for our passing, we privileged to witness it, peeping toms into other people’s lives for a long as it takes the train to make its pilgrimage, and I stare out into it, waiting to arrive at a place where I can reach, thinking of people and places I have left behind.
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