Pole. Positive. Magnetic.

Without a single reason, an explanation, an excuse I could defend myself with.

I wasn't worried about her – selfish bastard I am.

I couldn't offer myself an explanation.

That night...

Let go of it.

Something else, to keep my minds busy and scare away my memories, cover the cuts as if nothing ever happened.

I can't.

I rest my head against the window, looking for a lie to stick with, staring at the gloomy, dull countryside that flies past, just a blur flashing past.

The open fields, extending themselves over the hills, where a farmhouse stands, a fortress isolated, with its white walls blending with the sea of gold around. A tractor surfs over the endless tide, crushing anything beneath. A farmer carrying his scythe, the blade as sharp as ever, waiting to cut whatever it sees next, tearing it apart, hungry for destruction.

We could as well crash.

Derail, turn over, skid over the grass, just to be smashed against a dull rocky house in an innocent peaceful village near the tracks, sweep anything in our way, as we're crushed inside this metal cage, just to become unknown celebrities, making the covers of all journals, famous for dying for nothing.

Coach 5, row 13.

I'd even die alone, as the glass I'm resting against would shatter, throwing deadly darts against my neck, cutting it open and leaving me to bleed to death, but not before my skull's struck for the last time by some loosen object bouncing around, knocking me out of existence, of reality, of life, never to wake up again.

Lived alone, died alone, lived without a reason and died for the same cause – what a fucking celebrity I'd be.

But alone?

I'm n... I wasn't alone. Not until that night.

I wasted it. Blew it. Left with nothing.

I try to forget it, look away, erase it with a thick rubber.

Rest.

That's what I need, my solution, realization.

I just let go, as my eyelids slowly start to drop, kidnapping me from myself.

“May I see your ticket, sir?”

I'm back already.

“...your ticket, sir.”

I stare in confusion, before absorbing the words.

The man, probably in his sixties, with a calm friendly expression stamped in his face and combed white hair, delivers the message in a subtle soft voice.

My ticket.

I take my time before locating it and pulling it from my coat's pocket and handing it to the aged hand sticking out of a tidy, well-kept dark-blue uniform.

“May I ask, is there anything wrong, sir?”

It was obvious. I was screaming it, no matter how silent I remain.

I look for words, trying to get my voice to work.

“I'm... No, nothing.”

Faint, dead, lifeless, just a give away to answer the stupid question.

I didn't mean to be rude.

“Just not in my best day... Thanks.”

He knew it, of course.

My whole story, what happened and that anything was indeed wrong.

I wasn't in the mood to keep it up.

He just smiled, returned the ticket, said something kind to cheer me up and walked towards the next wagon.

What did he say?

My thoughts, memories had taken over before he said it.

Kind, calm, peaceful.

Checking for tickets, stamping pieces of paper, having a wife, growing a family, living with completion...

A life.

I had none, nothing.

A stamped ticket, a coat, a suitcase, a guitar...

Absolutely nothing.

Future?

I was a scythe. Sharp, tearing through it, ripping my bloody own future to pieces.

Just let go of it. Now.

I get my head against the window again, glancing through the glass, to find the answer to the problem.

The hazel piercing me.

Dark.