We shimmy on the ties next to old rail lines all grown up in grass, all grown under; soon disappear and i wonder, 'this feeling inside, what could it mean? and what waits for me at mile fifteen?' My eyes are not wide, the sky is. My heart isn't loud, only fear is. And this train moves life-line-ish. No body's seen nights like this. We are moving through a painting, with the darkness hesitating. I could call my gentle ways, but deep down i anticipate. It was the Whistle who said it, 'Which one of you cares where were headed?' Not me. Not me.