“I don’t care what no Robert Zimmerman says, trains can’t have feelings,” a dusty lad named Jacob said. “My cousin Matthew- he rode a train once. He says they ain’ nothin’ but cold.” Jacob spat on the older gentleman’s shoes he was crouched over and rubbed them with his shirt sleeve. “Ah, but they do possess a certain rhythm, do they not?” his client replied, letting smoke from a cigar wrap itself around the slowly drawled inquiry. He was Abraham. His suit was immaculate. “They do sir,” the lad replied. “Is feelings the same things as rhythms?” The old man smiled. A farmboy from the neighboring countryside rode past on his bicycle. Behind him he pulled a cart full of hay for his father’s horses. His face was cast down, forcing his will into the pedals as he struggled against his burden. “I do believe, my lad, that feelings are the quite similar to rhythms at times. Quite similar.”
