Jun 8, 2012

Mr Firedrake's Pageant of Ghosts from the Future


Gael's mark is on that smoke-belching contraption that runs on felled brothers and sisters.

Black train hissing and chugging to a halt. Everyone around Gael smells of damp and mothballs. The past is complete in charming ugliness.

Too much disgusting iron. Gael steps back from the lip of the platform.

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