I never seem to write at home, in my hotel room, or anywhere stable, and this was an especially bumpy train. I never finished this, but I can't remember what else I wanted to say.
Monday, July Thirty-first
Amtrak: DC -> ATL
It clatters. The sidewalk clatters as you walk over it, a strange, hollow sound. How far down does this construction go? An inch? A foot? A mile? What secrets did L'Enfant never plan? Why is the sidewalk hollow? Is everything here hollow? Is it all a sinkhole just biding its time to take us all down? What if the tile cracked down the middle? Shattered? Where would you go? If the ground you walk on turns out to be unstable and your foundation hollow, what, then, becomes of you?
The next tile makes no unusual noises and neither does the one after that. How much normalcy must you string together to forget that moment with the abyss? Was it ever even that bad? Looking back, full of hindsight, it is easy to construct a pattern of near-hysteria. There is no fatal abyss; it is all fabrication.
Another tile clatters under you, and even having seen the narrative behind you, it is too easy to fall into deep thoughts about deep places. Even knowing things are mostly stable, knowing this is a good path you get to walk, you know it is only a matter of time before the entire world gives out under your feet.