"TRAINS CRACKS" ... Sounds like a haberdashery for drug addicts.  And It Is.  The Drug of Normal.  The Drug of the Clanging Moment of Now.  The Drug of Complacency and Compliance. So, one glimpses Life Between The Cracks. Between the cracks, you see Angelic Eyebrows posed in an Arching Moment of Enquiry.  The lid off the pot, the contents stirred.  What does it smell like? Between the cracks you sense the passing of time: the movie that careens between "mundane" and "magic", and the stringent measures we take to turn "ordinary" into "bravado". And the price we pay for our own DisneyLand.

Canada Speaks loudly to us as the "land of the free".

It's our home, our kindergarten, our playground, our prison. Clearly, it's not about "Canada" or "Cambodia", but it's about the mentality of us all, as we proceed in our uniforms, carrying our stethoscopes and guns.

"Doctors For Peace" and "Killers For War" - we walk side by side.  We all watch the same hockey, the same meteorology about a green world turned red, the same Reality TV turns bad, like another drug bought off a street-corner of ill-repute.

And the trains move on.

Sometimes slow, grinding small birds and insects to dust.  Sometimes fast: crashing tons of useless metal against tons of useless metal. It's a toothpaste ad for a world that lost its dentures long ago.

It's a movie about Dinosaurs watched by people in Rest Homes. Well all know the plot, but we're too tired to turn it off.

And at last, the locomotive lurches to a halt.  It's resting place in the Late Day Sun. It's now a cucumber in Mother's Garden, a toothpick waiting patiently in a Dentist's office.

We climb these paths of Metal, we see hidden magic in the fingers of the sun.

There is no place we cannot go, there is no route we cannot run.

As days march on and Metal Drives by, we wonder things that no brain can comprehend. We wonder why people drive they way they do. We wonder why people put "bad art" on their living room walls. (Didn't you ever go drinking at a friend's house, say in the basement rumpus room, and there was a ping-pong table, and a moose-head on the wall, and the musty smell of rain and mould and a black velvet painting of Jesus or Elvis behind the bottles and ashtrays. And you asked yourself, "What Religion Am I?"

And you looked around at your comrades and asked, "What Religion are they?"

And the more you drank, the less it mattered, but the smell stayed with you: the musty smell.)

And when you go to church, sometimes that musty smell comes back. And you'd give anything for a cigarette or a beer, but you clench your jaw, and the bride and groom almost kiss, almost fall into the fragrance that issues from between the cracks.

And all your left with is a feeling of "thank God it's Friday", after the large wooden doors close behind you.