Railyard > Listen on BandCamp

I dream often, but last night was no ordinary dream. What I saw wasn’t imagination, nor the drifting fragments of sleep. It was a walk through the impossible.

The setting was a rail yard. Sidings scattered, lanterns swung, and men with tools worked the hard grind of years gone by. I wasn’t just standing there. I was seeing through a lens bolted to the front of a slow-moving train that inched through the yard. And this lens wasn’t human. It didn’t record, it revealed. It peeled the world apart like thin paper shims of light and process.

A man lifted a hammer to strike a spike, and I didn’t just see the blow; I saw the strike ripple through air and metal, detail unfolding in fractals. A train wheel shifted inches, and it became cathedral-like, an entire geometry of sound and weight. Even the sway of a lantern as someone walked became vast, multidimensional, and psychedelic without the drugs. Dream-born, but in a sense more real than anything I’ve seen before.

At the center of this dream stood a figure, an engineer, steady-handed, practical, and shaped by the logic of steel and structure. He smiled like a creator, guiding me through the yard as though showing me a secret film. But he wasn’t bound by the rules of engineering. He was a master of imagery, directing something far beyond proof or logic.

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