forty trees blur in the train window. make a perfect green sheet of green shadows between the leaves. every once in a while a house. a trace of thinking but not what thought. it can’t be told what is moving and what is not. it can’t be told what is in the houses and what is not. but somehow they are connected before him. so he cannot say what he is and nothing can be said about saying. a thing is making a difference. this is to say it is and is no longer. a woman sat somewhere nearby. he doesn’t know what he is to her. he cannot say what he is. maybe he is what he is to her or maybe he should be. billboards above a highway change every so often and are seen every so often. a roar of cars eroding asphalt in small ways. i-95 banding gray through the landscape. reparations are too intentional to last. he thinks he will always be what he is now and somehow not though, on the same days. trains quieten as their iterations...