I found a ticket to fame
Held down by a cigarette butt on the corner of 4th and E.
Wrinkled, covered in greasy fingerprints, its plastic covering tarnished by years of ill use and disillusionment and suicide
But I picked it up anyway.
I found the station spotless--ample time to clean between visitors.
The conductor was a young guy, my age, with headphones in.
I sat alone in the rattling car, gold-plated seat digging into the backs of my knees
Until we stopped.
I got up but the young guy cursed over the intercom.
"Sorry for the inconvenience. We overreached our stop. Reversing soon."
My stomach lurched as the train chugged back the way we came.
I couldn't see out the gold tinted windows to our accidental surroundings and I wasn't sure I'd want to anyway
So I fiddled with my ticket, folding it over and over again until I couldn't.
Finally we stopped and I got off like nothing had happened, and
True, nothing had.
But I couldn't shake the feeling I got when we stopped and turned back from the end of the tracks.
The knowledge that this wasn't it. There was another stop later, an invisible mysterious more.
Some call it God.
Some call it the universe.
Some call it nothing.
And none can see out the window.