Sun Drain

Every day, the old man sits high in a dour, tall building. He sits at a window. He watches a train that contains all the loved and loveless dead ones whizz down the oldest railroad tracks in the world. Always there are more and darker commuters. From his side, they look like the ghosts of jazz singers, with their dark hands and faces pressed to the morning-frosted glass of the train. From their side, he is a slight imperfection in the ice.