I used to wonder about it, from time to time. I’d be riding on the train, maybe a little after dusk, and I’d look out the windows. There were houses there, following one another in rapid succession, nice houses, and the warm glow of the electric light was showing through the windows. Now, the railroad was to the side or the back of the house, so you got an honest glimpse through the windows, not like you’d see through the front windows, the formal windows. Just a second, and then it shot by; a dining room table, some magazines, the dog looking out; the kitchen and the refrigerator with the notes pinned to it with magnets; dishes in the sink and glasses on the counter-top; maybe a bedroom with the shade not quite drawn and a teenager inside, not quite studying; and the family room or den or TV room, with the blue glow blending into the orange of the incandescent; the orange so constant, the blue so dynamic and ragged. Not alike, not at all; but these endless variations on a theme, street after street, mile after mile, town after town, prosperity flickering by at twenty four frames per second, for the rest of the ride.
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