In one direction, a forgotten railroad carries bikes, horses and runners. In another, the railroad survives and a massive freight train covered with graffiti rumbles through twenty-three times a day.
At this point stands a crumbling switch house that's become a monument to destruction, self and otherwise. Angry words sprayed on the pavement. Broken green glass and empty cigarette boxes. A man's tennis shoe that once was white but is browning with age. Bullet holes in the remaining plywood over the windows, a spray-painted message pointing them out in case you hadn't noticed. A toppled Victrola, smashed, the music gone. Burned places on the cement floor. Among the debris, the bleached jawbone of a deer. It seems both out of place and not.
I emerge from the octagonal bunker disoriented.
Which track? Which direction?