Sunday Prose

At midnight, a train screams, and I wake up groaning. I imagine that a pencil-thin Dagny Taggart dressed in film noir black is leaning her head out of a window and facing progress, laughing at it. Letting the West and the entire night know that it has been won by a woman on a steam engine. I lean my head out of my tarp tent and face the sky, breathless at it. Watching unquantifiable waves of stars spill through the clouds and remind me that not every West has been won. 

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