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T R A I N S I N T H E D A R K Split from space, time-launched but time-less, our car carries night itself. There’s a through line between apocalypse and shock, that word coined when trains first carried man past beast. We’re post, the bomb’s gone off a hundred times a hundred, the soup of it invisible in our breath, not even fog against the pane, this soup the train drives into, end game. The post modern, post feminist, post digital, post/pillar/post—the whistle’s already blown, we’re shocked, sliding mercury-like between rails in a soup of space uniting time and trouble: Middle East, North Korea, Oz pinpricked into a balloon— the posts we pass hold upturned boots, the posts—those blurred flashes—all khaki. 30 ...

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