Wee Hours, Day 11.
I lean my hatted head out the window of the control booth and look back to find her standing on the train platform waiting to board. Why had we left our bed of love? We had peeled our skins apart scarcely more than an hour ago, severed our one beating heart to put on clothes and go to work. In a flurry of habit, we trotted ourselves off to the wail of the rush-hour siren, clopet-ty clop to jobbidy-job, to action without heart, complicit in the murder of time. Again today a lovers strike left undeclared, that soul entwined in mine so short a time ago now food for great machines. The doors bit her aboard. I lurched the beast forward on its tracks.
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