He sits amid the bustle and orders a drink amidst unfamiliar sounds. It thickens. The people talk like Peanut's parents. Each syllable is a sheet of metal; funny,
how reverberation blocks vision. Each word
reflects his suspicion. The noise encases him.

Their murmur splits his ear, and his room shakes on iron wheels that scream, and he is in a train car. The cars shudder, and like the rattles of iron links
the word "unsound" ricochets in his lobe.

And he is in the furnace. He piles coal into the fire, heaves each scoop into the mouth and blanches his knuckles as he stabs its tongues. Thoughts
of growth combust. Dead wood, dead wood.
He grows faint as each breath only draws in ash.
It cakes his lungs.

A stationary phantom, he stays behind as the furnace treads forward. He shifts on the barstool, and people speak: "unbearable, so hot my hair dried ten
minutes out the shower", "nothing a pint won't
cool". He looks through the window
and views expansive plains.

He returns to the furnace
and it yawns smoke; he grips
his spear; he must escape.