Sunday, March 15, 2009


Ghosts, thousands of ghosts, men and women doing what they did all the time and even now, making tires from molten rubber, yelling foreman, horns and whistles, all the comings and goings of everyday life at the abandoned factory, where the windows are all broken and the smell of oil and industry is blown out into the open sky and taken to Tomorrow by The Wind.
Yet there is no solitude. Time is turned, and the buildings are ruins, but as I drift around dreaming, there's another shift beginning, and the belts are singing aloud when the machinists return, and the dust is not disturbed by the work of ghosts.

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