铁轨开始流泪，泪水是热的，划过金属的每一寸皮肤，带出焦味与光的残骸。车厢在震颤，像时间把自己咀嚼后又吐回轨道。
有人伸手去摸屏幕，指尖只抓住一片裂纹的余热，像是试图回忆一个已经消磁的信号。声音不是失去，而是溶解，被车尾拖成一道不规则的波形，在骨头里回响。
每一次震动都从脚底穿透骨髓，我们无法站稳，身体像泡沫悬浮在加速中。指针不在了，只有跳动的光，像心脏在错位中持续发光，却不再跳动。
屏幕的尽头不是影像，而是一种灼烧感，一种语言在腐蚀中脱落的味道。我们不知道驶向何方，只有铁的节奏将我们一节节推出身体的边界，速度使我们彼此失明。
The rails are weeping—their tears are hot, tracing every inch of metal skin, leaving behind the scent of burning and the residue of fractured light. The carriage trembles as if time chews and spits itself back onto the tracks.
Someone reaches for the screen—fingertips meet only the heat of its cracked echo, like trying to recall a signal long demagnetized.
Sound isn’t lost—it dissolves, stretched into an irregular waveform trailing at the rear, reverberating inside bones.
Each tremor pierces from the soles into the marrow; we can’t stay upright—our bodies float like foam inside acceleration.
The gauge has no pointer anymore, only pulses of light—like a misfired heart glowing without beating.
At the edge of the screen, there is no image—only a burn, the taste of language shedding itself in corrosion.
We don’t know where we’re going—only that iron’s rhythm pushes us, carriage by carriage, beyond the edge of our bodies. Speed makes us blind to one another.