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Destination unknown, the rails stretch out before me. Rusted and weary, grass growing from the bed. The old familiar tune, ”Mr. Bojangles” crops up from the depths of my memory as I walk the line.

My senses come alive, tingling as if trying to warn… No not warn, simply trying to make me aware of something, or someone. The wind rustling in the old Oaks. Speaking to me, telling tales and secrets of old. The spirits are awake today, and they are restless.

My mind drifts off to a distant place, a TIME long passed. The whif of campfire smoke, the wailing of a sad, hollow violin. Sounds and scents that should not be hear, now in this time and place. I hear the music, laughter, muffled conversations of those who went before. I can feel their frustrations, worry’s, and dreams.

I wish I could see them. I wonder what they would look like, hobo’s of times gone? Or would they just be the lonely lost souls with deeds left undone? I strain to hear the conversation, yet the harder I try, the less I understand!

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