Unending

At dawn in the damp chill of a November morning approaching a death crawl into December, I was riding a forgotten train from momentary disillusionment to a residence of more permanent despair. The damp air was foggy and engulfing like a mysterious dream littered with strangers that desire your harm while obscuring every window and doorway in which you hoped to escape. Some of the cruel strangers on my dream train were returning from coffin retreats and burial getaways. I was a humble man among cutthroats and ghoulish thieves; I was tired and shivering like an abandoned child only recently acquainted with rejection. Sometimes, when waking from such dreams, it is difficult to distinguish between the heart-pounding nightmare seemingly ceased and the accustomed sense of dread one has long learned to accept.