Constance Freeling, the inside switch maiden of the town of Calverts Dam,
two hundred miles from the Davenport Reservoir, relays the telegram,
signals the train to slow in the harbor station, and pulls the last lever of her night,
to look out the dismal window to the hollow street of her denial.
The strain of mundane life has reckoned with her soul and the tears of
struggles have creased her vacant, stone face.
The race begins to scuttle the ship at birth. Into the realm of posthumous terror we are cast,
and Constance is a mirror of all that is. I am not to be as I am seen says the ghost.
Pretending to know is the characteristic of failure, the block of ice the sun won’t melt.
Does poor Constance know? I should ask for a small talk with her in my dream tonight. – Sinz