The shed was originally painted yellow.
There it sat next to rusted train tracks.
The color of pollen now.
People stood inside.
People once alive and obsessed with movement.
Now they stand like mannequins.
Avoiding eyecontact.
Begging their ears to simulate the sound of a train.
But no boards tremble, no horns hoot.
He did not look at me.
He didn't look at his own father either.
Was I to join them too, the clumsy faithless.
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