a logscribble by hvincent

Sometimes the train rattles so much it's hard to type.

West Virginia greeted me with bare trees, brown fields, and still waters. I shared my row with a young knitter, and my column with a blazed loudmouth. The train shot through tunnels, each one opening into a yet foggier river valley until the sun set.

Past Washington DC, it's all sodium vapor lamps and panes and panes of concrete from here.