A moving train's fields lead to a reflection on Earth as a flying rock carrying everyday life through space.
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On a train, the fields tell you you're moving. The Earth carries every field. Trees, streets, weather, the people late for work, all carried with us without a lurch. We live on a flying rock. The sentence sounds absurd until the stars come out. Nothing aboard it feels like travel. We share the motion so completely we call it ground.
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A short lyric on a shop that sold back time.
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Two trees rub in the wind while rain, litter and a beetle collect in the fork between them.
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