I prepare chicken for
dinner as we are entertaining
this evening. As my wife
attempts to wake the
garden from its long winter
slumber, a train slowly rumbles
into the station across
the end of our garden. I
raise my head briefly. The
11:20 from London is full with
people - people who know
nothing of us, nothing of
who we are, where we came
from - our hopes and dreams
and of the places we go to...
when we sleep.
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