Feeling like a brown velvet blanket on the back of a friends couch tonight … like a purple sunset …. Like …. Like the grass … like wind

He heads towards a west that is the dreamer's true north, where the desert comes looking for us and curls at the door, a wild animal made of our ashes; hijacking the sun halfway, Jesse leaves his shadow at the crossroads. For the first time since his mad leap into another life, he hears in his head the singing that is his voice but isn't. Among the trains passengers is talk of a shadow track that cuts through the heart of the century with impunity, as though no time exists of calibration or counting, only an era of the mind. Every shadow hides a shaft to the center of the Earth, from which blows the gust of cancellation. In the distance, like the train's whistle, out of the dream-strafed countryside beyond Jesse's window, the singing of in his head grows louder the farther the train round's Vegas's nuclear id, where the flesh of the world is tattooed with light.
Steve Erickson, Shadowbahn.










