On Writer’s Block

yellow flowers

i have a ticket in hand. i look down, and the numbers are all blurred, the ticket is wet. i glance up at the departure times, the gate numbers. none of them are familiar. here i am, standing with no clue where to get on, where to turn. so many trains of thought and i can’t find a single one to jump onto, to ride out. i don’t know where to get one. where will i know where to get off?

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