The Train to Volgograd 

I’m in a factory where N is beat munging on an Atari ST. I’ve run a bath, my second of the day. He tells me the gays will come in, to complain about the lack of hot water. 
I have some books on a shelf. One is a remix of an old book of three stories about a train journey to Volgograd. I’m disappointed that it has already been written. I was planning to start work on it today. 
I’m stretched too far. I have meetings to attend, books to write, a bath to take. Musicians come in and ask me about book cover design. I have to meet with a social psychologist. I don’t know who he is, or what he looks like. 
Outside. Rain. A train station in Eastern Europe somewhere. I’m at the start of the Book. Sunlight shines through a brick archway. A man stands by a sign. He’s the author. He has glasses, and a see through mac, under which, newspapers and books line his pockets. 
The sign is in three parts. The top part says “Volgograd” and there’s an arrow below, pointing the way to the train. The second part reads “All is Love” and the final part has faded from my memory. I realise these are the titles of the three parts of the original book. I can still rewrite my own version of the story. 
I head to the platform, looking for the train to Volgograd, and the first chapter of my new journey. 
🛀 💻 📚 ☔️ 🚂 


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