Poetry: "The Breaking Train" by Ian Brunner
Where does it go? The madness, I mean. Thornton tells me to bite down on a piece of rubber. He tells me that I won’t remember a thing. I remember the sound. It was like a train braking inside my body. I know there is no God, or at least, not a caring one, because waking should never be painful. Reality should not be harsh. The grass cuts my feet. I imagine a still lake. Almost imperceptibly it starts to ripple. The silence is broken by the braking train. When I open my eyes,