Ten years old.
Lying in bed a dog barking from somewhere marking the territory of dusk, the diurnal outlier. Aware of earth's quiet progress I'm trying to fix the day before it turns. But it's foxed, edges blackened by the passage of time's engines, lost to memory's register. Waiting for sleep, I listen to the slow considerations of a distant train over by Stanage. Struggling with gravity a conversation with the welkin punctuated by mis-step and slip. Discourse resumes as sheets press against my legs the counterpaine's unseen freight. It was then the voices began downstairs. A discussion growing reckless a night train gone rogue and disorderly adrift along the timetable's margins. Something low resonated like an idling diesel A whistle shrieked among wreckage. Volume rose like a difficult job Until the door slammed. Then a sighed deflation, air from brakes workday arrangement of furniture as the house settled again to shadows. The dog barked, marked as normal the mutability of territory. .
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