For the train, which doesn’t give a damn about your silences. For the hoot and clang and rush and rattle that shout down your feeble murmur, box up your thoughts, carry them off to the someplace else the uproar heralds. It carries on its inevitable way, strident and straight-lined, unconcerned by person or place, unfettered by love or by hate. Nowhere is good enough to hang around long. Perfectly detached and perfectly bound. Admire its determination, but don’t envy its destiny. This train ain’t bound for glory, friends: it’s bound for Charlotte. So let it pass you by in all its trumped-up noisy peacock pride and stand your ground. The silence will return.