#баловство
#trappedintheamberofthismoment
The commuter train was almost empty, the usual suburban crowds either home safely or going in the opposite direction. The June air was lighter than it has ever been around the city, yet the seemingly unhindered train trundled on with visible effort. It was almost as if it was being pulled not by electric power running through the lines, but by an old-school steam-engine that gleamed with every last of its polished brass knobs and wheels, reflecting the golden evening light in all directions at once: a brand-new shining star of human progress, designed to match the ages-old one that was falling toward the horizon. In this cacophony of sunlight reflected everywhere, the carriage windows threw waving spots of light onto the cross ties, giving the whole track an appearance of a river bottom. Birches and poplars that grew along the railroad seemed perfectly unfazed by the symbolism of a slow-moving train, but rather mocked its troubled locomotion with their sun-starched leaves fluttering madly in the wind like swarms of cabbage butterflies. Suddenly, the train lurched and began gathering speed, while the time struggled to keep up, relaxed by the warm day. We rode silently, not daring to move, listening to the steady beat of the wheels: an eye of the storm, a picture of serenity against the backdrop of blurred suburbs in the windows, each of us feeling the indignant gaze of time itself on the backs of our heads.
#trappedintheamberofthismoment
The commuter train was almost empty, the usual suburban crowds either home safely or going in the opposite direction. The June air was lighter than it has ever been around the city, yet the seemingly unhindered train trundled on with visible effort. It was almost as if it was being pulled not by electric power running through the lines, but by an old-school steam-engine that gleamed with every last of its polished brass knobs and wheels, reflecting the golden evening light in all directions at once: a brand-new shining star of human progress, designed to match the ages-old one that was falling toward the horizon. In this cacophony of sunlight reflected everywhere, the carriage windows threw waving spots of light onto the cross ties, giving the whole track an appearance of a river bottom. Birches and poplars that grew along the railroad seemed perfectly unfazed by the symbolism of a slow-moving train, but rather mocked its troubled locomotion with their sun-starched leaves fluttering madly in the wind like swarms of cabbage butterflies. Suddenly, the train lurched and began gathering speed, while the time struggled to keep up, relaxed by the warm day. We rode silently, not daring to move, listening to the steady beat of the wheels: an eye of the storm, a picture of serenity against the backdrop of blurred suburbs in the windows, each of us feeling the indignant gaze of time itself on the backs of our heads.
0
У записи 7 лайков,
1 репостов.
1 репостов.
Эту запись оставил(а) на своей стене Егор Юрескул
