JOG ME (# 74,955)

If you attempt to commit to paper what is on your mind while you are on a train on Cornish rail tracks, the words and their clarity will be thrown wildly, they will be derailed, as if someone has jogged you. Except this disruption is spontaneous and beautiful in a way a schoolchild’s elbow isn’t.

Looking now at my notes I can barely decipher what I felt, such is the scrawl of the pencil. Crossing the Brunel bridge, the interference shifts from horizontal to vertical. The ground below has gone, the train is airborne, 80 feet above the high water mark of the River Tamar. Despite no increase in overall height on the train, the world’s mildest case of altitude sickness is now knocking at my aerobic door.

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