While the nation teems with traveling masses in modern transportation hubs, Thanksgiving morning finds the Westfield railroad depot alone, lights on as if to welcome forgotten spirits taking advantage of the early fog to relive the holiday platform reunions of a century past - the depot long having surrendered its importance and purpose to the passage of time and scale-tip of alternate transportation. Offices now, the octopus has no arms.
The Hotel Bismarck and the Buschmann Block are hulking specters looming eastward in the thick and low cloud covering Depot Square like a descending shroud. Whatever may approach along the quickly invisible tracks only known by the future, a tendered surprise escaping from the wrapping of mist, anticipated with unease.
An empty platform on Thanksgiving morning. Surely everyone is not truly where they want to be? No. 'Tis the march of days that make the trains pass Westfield now, warm lighted windows displaying faces of those click-clacking through on silver streamlined carriages, homage paid with a conductor's quick pull of the whistle. The station's only stop the casting of passing eyes.
The direction is south on the compass, 'tis true: but where does the straight rail lead when it is thick a'fog? Can one ever be sure without taking that first step into the unknown? Opaque is the future of man.