Sparks fall like snow from the bow collector of streetcar no 42. Slowly down the slope from Voyager Road and then east on the B206, across the river, to where there are no closed factories or ruins. To study. At the academy. Electrical cables run overhead and the bow collector draws across them like a musical instrument. A flash. She's standing at the rear window, holding onto the rail. In a spring coat, waving at you...
It's early in the morning. The world is dark blue. The sparks light her face. A delicate composition of triangles. The street seems to grow longer, like in a dolly zoom. And there's something in the air as you stand there and wave back at the shape growing smaller and smaller. Something that has *always* been there. A great see-through world. The tenderness you feel. The ghost of Revachol between you, carrying your signals. The holy messenger.
This page was last edited on 17 January 2021, at 23:11.
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