She dozes as images slide in and out of her mind, snapshots from a 1920s silent movie. Churling smoke hovers in the gauzy air, the wheels of the train lull her further toward sleep. But she forces her eyes open.
Empty slips hang on a line over a pool, blow in the wind and snow, hover over empty shelves and benches. In each circular frame there are no people. Only a portrayal of a person, a ghost-like enemy permeates past and corduroy present. The empty slip is vacant of the body. It defies a sense of gravity as air passes through, creating a dance, cookie-cutters of time.
It was in Philadelphia that the Prozac stopped working. She exited the train, into spitting rain, slipping into a silky night.
