we have all our legs today. this is a good kind of news. sometimes, when we go out to play, we come home with the blues. once, Milo told me he was scared of spider’silk. that’s respectable. me, i’m mortified to say i’m mortal when it comes to milk. i told him of the rumour about renaissance–just a shade sharing tales. but Milo, he was mesmerized, and today he says he’s going to bring his ruby to the rails.
i tag along, of course. what else should i do with my time? i have too much to fill. i watch him wait between the tracks, staring, stoic, still. a whistle pierces the silence, long and loud and shrill. then we hear the engine chugging, screeching on steel wheels. Milo’s face is shadowed; i can’t guess at what he feels. he holds his hand palm-up, proffering his prism like a prayer. and then the locomotive’s looming large as life, and i look hard to try and learn what’s under its luminous layer.
there should be more to tell. i should say, i saw the hordes of hell, or angry angels anxious to collect their caller’s culmination. but all i found before my friend [ef]faced his fulmination was this fact, this little consolation: the conductor is calm and compact, and he wears the color of confirmation.