Train

It crawls across the high plains at night. From this height it's barely a thread, lit only by the stars in the starry sky. At its head, the yellow ray of a light pushes into the great dark.

But that's a birds-eye, or maybe a drone's-eye, view, not really for humans.

Inside it are people, like you. And who like you. Inside, you have a compartment of your own, with a chair and desk, reading lamp, bed, and even washroom with a shower. There are lounge cars too, for socializing, and a dining car, where people dress for dinner. Also an observation car, from which the world passes by as scenery.

Sometimes it goes through the cities of the world. It shows you towers and strip malls, mansions and hovels, a glimpse of the range of human reality outside the train. At the stations, it slows but rarely stops. It's not for the people waiting. Through the windows, however, you can see their faces. They appear to be looking at you, but it's one-way glass. They can't see you, only themselves reflected back, sometimes distorted.

You wouldn't want to leave it, the train, would you? You could though. At its occasional stops, new people, people that fit, board it. It's capacious and can always accommodate new arrivals. And there you could step off, back into the world. Of baffled pain, meaningless death, hopeless desire. You could sample the lot of those gazing at their reflections in what was your window. But even so, you wouldn't, couldn't, be one of them any longer. The train has changed you.