It's three in the morning.

Destination: Death. Lifelong ticket

Don't rush.
It'll come eventually.

Enjoy it,
You're already in the process.

Start, lost, found, end.
Start, end.
Never begun.
Put that four letter, missing word between them.

Your life is a train ride,
from the edge of the world to the end of time.

Don't gaze at the fish markets by the window,
Get out, walk through it,
have a conversation with the vendors.
Pleasant or not.

Same goes for the man or woman,
next to your booth, across the corridor.
Strike a chat,
Throw a coin,
Flirt.
Who knows.
Your booth might just be big enough for two.

And don't dwell on the last stop,
Await the next with a souvenir from the past.
You ain't going back,
but it'll live in a tiny snow globe.
On the window shelf.

The scenery changes too.
Times it's a desert or a mountain,
It could be a city being shelled by 155s.
Or a clearing of roses and lilies and bees.
Get off if you'd like, stay on if you would.

But please,
Don't just observe the spectacles.
Don't just lean your cheek on curled arm,
Watching whatever's on.

It's a window on a moving train,
not a fucking television.
And the world isn't a show either.

Its ambiguous and uncaring nature
Granted you with all the freedom one could've.

Pull the break from time to time,
The other passengers would understand.
Don't rush through the stations.

The end waves at us all,
It was designed this way.

'But here's a lil secret free of charge.' Says the stranger. 'You could choose your last stop, and how to meet it.'

Step off the train leaving an empty room behind,
all alone with nothing but a leather case.
Like it's a business trip.
Or.
Stop ignoring the stops.
Sooner or later it'll run out.