With a benign irrelevance the train rumbled through town in the prenatal hours of the morning with a dull thunder and a silent roar trying to find the forbidden passage to Oz. Gramma told me once about the passing of the train from the days of her periwinkle youth and the nonchalance it left behind. Now as the heavens reached down with its decrepit fingers to claim the mundane vagaries of whatever it wanted, grammas' voice echoed in my head: "Ne'er do well and rip the sod, there is no questioning the hand of God." With that the train drew ever closer drowning and droaning all thoughts enveloping all and folding unto itself. The cacophony of solitude surrounded me while I hid from the hand of God. As the rosy fingers of dawn stretched across the horizon, basking in the early morning amber sky, I broke though my solitude to discover a mixture of Dresden, Hiroshima and the three little pigs. The scattered intracasies of everyday lay broken and confused Dreams once weaved couple with the frayed ends of sanity. Across the street a lone figure takes realizations of the ruins, not for the sensationalization of today, but for the justifications of tomorrow. In front of me a women sits turned around and stoic in a lawnchair, clinging to photos of yesterday. Methodically she turns to me with a slight grin, nods, and turns back to stare at what once was. Like ants recovering from a 10 year olds' firecracker, people emerge from the desolation. Like an echo from the horrific morn gramma speaks again, "The winds they came and toppled the corn, after the darkest night, came the brighter morn." With that the train drifted further away, the sound of only memory remained and once again upon a time prevailed.