“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
The Train that runs without tracks; Safe Shires or Hobbit Homes behind closed doors, these exist no more.
Twas two nights before, I heard its roar across the valley floor, punching tickets of the faceless masses in mangled-bloody gore, those in singularity of unmangled-bloodless gore.
Ol’ Bastards like me, ne’er our tickets punched, for when we hear The Train screaming down its trackless tracks, into the safety of The Trees, we sleep the sleep of sleeps, The Forest Floor our beds.