9.2 on the way to the storage unit, i notice new textures. barren yards of road-worn tires, rippling walls of wind-rotted paint, the sides of buildings with rock-shaped bricks, and piles upon piles of rust-licked pipe. the sweat glides thick over my summer-sunk wrinkles. the forecast was wrong, but i forgive it. the train keeps rushing through the time-forgotten bramble.