By E.S. Wynn
The spirit train goes to nowhere now, stops at yesterday on the way to the station between before and after. The tracks whistle and hum with the singing tones of old iron ground thin to skeletal rails, and the faces that stare waxen and pale from rippled windows whisper silently, blankly, breathing the words that only death has an ear for.
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E.S. Wynn spends his time climbing a stairway to heaven.
Labels: Earl S. Wynn