Now again, another first: I have caught a wrong train, an express train to a long way away. Because, I was reading a book, because I read a sign wrongly, or perhaps forgot to read it at all. Looking up and being somewhere strange. I've finished with the book. I'd like to be home. Still, I think about what to write, here. Which is not a new problem, unlike the train one. It is warm. Last bit of sun, DUSK. Waiting for a train back. I am usually careful. This could be an omen, magic, a tiny thought. Off balance, as a stranger. Sometimes I babble, go on and on, as if knowing something. It's an unlikely, terrible, trait. It could be inherited. Probably not. Just a day ago I saw Gary Cooper pull the tin star off and throw it to the ground, into the sand. Then he rode off. I'd never seen it before. It is displayed close by. I mentioned to you The Hour Of The Star, as if it fitted with your STAR. I think it does, something held Macabea together, a barely glowing star. What I saw in the picture of the red circled star was the verandah post. Such a poor response, yet all, and enough to make me find the picture of the girl with the paper bag standing in the street, near the POST. Then the falling star. And so the drawing. This drawing which is close to how I learned to draw the Christmas Star, two triangles overlaid. There, a star, so sad too, to be just a few lines. The star, being a star, dressed up at the Drive-In, a few lines. Hardly even a song. A star is not a song. Nor is a post. But music still, in the past. The train is going back. It's slowing getting dark, POST DUSK, this is lost time, this space which is nothing. At Dry Creek.