I’ve been trying, my darling, to explain to myself how it is that same freight train loaded with ballast so a track may rest easier in its bed should be what’s roused us both from ours, tonight as every night, despite its being miles off and despite our custom of putting to the very back of the mind all that’s customary and then, since it takes forever to pass with its car after car of coal and gas and salt and wheat and rails and railway ties, how it seems determined to give the lie to the notion, my darling, that we, not it, might be the constant thing.