i rode on a train in new york when i was six

2004-12-15, 2:06 a.m.

my name is -, and i have lived on a train for the past 3 years. names arent important on a train ride... i should say, ONE name is not important on a train ride. if you would have asked me three years ago if i would live on a train for so long, i would have laughed; i laughed easier then, though. i live on this train because when i turned 18, i found out i had no home, because my parents were itching to retire, and my siblings wanted to stretch their arms in assorted worldly places. i booked a trip to Georgia -it was the state that my finger picked when i pointed blindly at a map of the united states- then shovled up a pile of clothes from my bedroom floor, grabbed a dozen books, and a notebook, and left home without note.
the first thing i noticed was the way a sleeping car is like an infirmary, maybe one found in a dream. the hallway shifts slightly, like it was on rollers, and each room is a cubicle, meant to comfort the office workers the same way a concrete iceburg comforts a zoo polar bear. the thin walls were made of oak, soaked in red the same way that spaghetti sauce soaks into a white shirt, lacquered to shine from any direction. this was no high tech train, the doors slid on wheels, over teh threshold was your own hospital waiting room, equiped with various boxes to store your belongings.

my little room was no different than any other in the car, depressed seat cushions and a continuously repainted landscape outside the window frame.