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I’m going home. I’ve decided. This country is too full of things I don’t like.

Once Chieko, my lover Chieko, not my sister, told me that she liked trains because they were magic: you walk in one door and when you walk out, the world has changed around you. The platforms are like magic portals–everything is designed to sweep you up and move you elsewhere. Trains are cities, she said, that never stop moving, and you cannot stay.

I cannot stay.

But my ticket says San Francisco. I could drive, but I don’t think it’s safe. I have a flight tomorrow, and then a little while to lie low and ride trolleys which are not really like trains at all and then home, home, where we understand that perversion is fine so long as you give it a safe place in society and raise up a cage around it. We do not chase folk about in Datsuns.

I miss my sister.

But I will not stop writing here. My publicist has washed her hands of me. Yet I say:

I wrote a history of trains. I did. But only some of them were trains you have ever ridden. The rest…they ride you.


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