Listen.
The trains are singing to each other at 2 in the morning. It's a special language you can only hear when the rest of the city has fallen asleep. The trains speak as if no one can hear them; its finally safe to let their horns exhale into the night. They're chants spill onto my ears through a skinny window held open by an old tin coin jar. The last remaing fresh air in the desert oozes in, barely touching my face and the stars are covered in the murky morning sky. The trains though,  they are a special kind of beauty.