He imagined a steam-powered locomotive with the speed of a bullet train. Tracks went over the hill into a hazy horizon he couldn’t see. Always over the hill; always out of sight. He would climb into the conductor’s seat. Position himself at the helm in front of a typewriter whose keys when forced, like a piano, smacked the hammer attached to each letter against the page. One step removed from the hammer and chisel. He would chisel the course of the tracks. Each day he would create the horizon into which he would ride. The steady staccato of each key press propelled the engine ahead:
“We ran triage through the appliance department.” No.
“The weather forced him off an exit he’d never seen before.” No.
A block had fallen into the gears, straining and stalling them. He sat motionless.
“Well, we’re just going to have to get meta,” he murmured.
