Fictitious dialogue between I and the tram which became out of use in my town. Memories.
Static. A flight of turtles has just alighted upon the cable. The tram was nowhere, thence, it was I and those little feathered beings, that were emphatically seeing eye to eye with each other. I expected to find the street railway snaking through the gloom of the ridgy buildings, but I found it turning into an immense gap in the asphalt, yelling deep down, in agony. That antique engraving in the street crust was missing.
“Bloody rusty tram! Have you ever wondered that I was always waiting impatiently for you to come, even when you were so erratic and sluggish...? You cannot remember because you have nothing. No soul. No surface coverage. Bring my memories back, especially those of your old green face, staring like a torpid bone-shaker whose rude forgings and scars fastened you to the past. What about your ingenuous scrapes, your crowded inner world filled with masks of all sorts? Do you remember Spiky Squirrel, isn't it? If you deny, it means you are still beating around the bush, with all your ripeness typical for olden.
Only if your memory had remained unbroken, after your smooth disintegration... Shall I come up with any refreshments? ...Spiky Squirrel played an essential part in your hush story. While the snowstorms were darkening your sight last winter, a creamy heeled leg stood out a brave silhouette. Wrapped in a mink skin and spreading sophisticated moves in her own luxury, her presence released a real gush of curious sights and hungry thoughts amongst the tattler community from that enclosure. The gentlewoman murmured something from her teeth as white as milk, then trembled her red lips under the eccentric hat made of pure squirrel hair. What a ruin! Animals begin to disappear from their natural ecosystem. Now, I know why these feminine creatures steal the beauty of others. From squirrel to squirrel, the game is on. What does it stand for? Relating such ecstatic profusion to an animal of such kind that spent a life in wildness without any compliment, means cruelty. One moth ball keeps them both alive. Poor squirrel, poor mink! Poor tram, because you hosted many stories of stuffed ladies, carrying with them not only the feeling of pride but also the spirit of a forgotten flossy being.”
I could stop rolling my feet at any moment, but I refused. It seemed that everything vanished into thin air. Blocks, turtles, toxic fuels, my tram whose stories I used to decrypt in silence... The age of trams went down. Instead, Spiky Squirrel still lingers.