A trainline ends in a beach.
The beach completes the trainline.
A trainline—your narrow seat screeching—ends in a beach.
The beach—wet sand on a weekday in mid Winter—completes the trainline.
A trainline—in a long denim skirt your knees press together, you are considering the 
	privilege of taking the train to its end—ends in a beach.
The beach—the damp, mostly empty piers of destination—completes the trainline.
A trainline—along with hideous commuters, bruised and late for work—ends in a beach.
The beach—where forgotten shopkeepers live, all men, without wives or with impossible 
	wives—completes the trainline.
A trainline—being almost offensively well-dressed (a scarf, even) but going perfectly 
	unnoticed—ends in a beach.
The beach—indecipherable balloon animals, horses lashed to a merry-go-round— 
	completes the trainline.
A trainline—that you have ridden, all by yourself, since childhood—ends in a beach.
The beach—passing buildings that make no sense, low, windowless, foolproof— 
	completes the trainline.
A trainline—the last stop approaches but no one prepares to stand—ends in a beach.
The beach—suddenly, water birds break the silence, then dive into the water—completes 
	the trainline.
A trainline—only now, as you move toward the door, do the commuters look up to see 
	the back of your head, a woman, young but not too young—ends in a beach.
The beach—safe here, because the men have grown too old to do any more evil— 
	completes the trainline.
A trainline—taking off your sneakers, you step directly from the train car onto the wet, 
	gray sand—ends in a beach.