Sunday, 6 December 2009

digging at the air


Jack leafed through his wallet, touching the photo as he pulled out his time-card and punched in. The Bundy clock had no answer as to why she hadn't replied. Still. The past week had been pure water torture. The relish he applied to the railroad grind evaporated into a viscous haze of insecure self-loathing, leaving the monotony bare. He didn't give anything away to his fellow workers, the banter continued as per usual. The only recourse at his disposal was to write again, as the last letter had obviously reached an untimely end in transit. It wouldn't be the last to undergo such a fate. His name wasn't really Jack.

The Zutons - Railroad





///taken from Who Killed The Zutons (2004)?
///photo

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