The fog plumed through the gunshot holes in the train windows like smoke sneaks out from underneath doors in the house of flame or out of a cracked open car window; the train passes and no one seems to notice but me. I like to watch how smoke moves, it seems to dance uncomfortably in the open air, as if it longs to be a part of it but doesnt feel right. It floats on, riding the wind, going whichever way the current of air decides to blow. Up is like down when space doesnt matter, when nothing matters. It doesn't even matter, but I watch it anyways. I'm easily amused.