If you ride a trolley long enough you’ll come to the end of the line. You can then remember the sights and stops, the riders that come and go. Maybe trouble on the line, cross words or banter, perchance the frozen grim look of out-of-sorts folks. Perhaps that little girl with lollipop all over her face. But search the faces–all of them–whose do you want to see?
the limb too weak to support
night slides into day