Dylan Hirt

There is a collage that includes images of a moon, butts, the Detroit maps, scraps of poetry, and a train track.

Almost every night will stay awake until the Chicago L train passes by my window, but it is not just any train but a train that has not to light on, is empty, and is usually hauling in the middle a large piece of machinery. This for the past year and a half has become a ritual for me to close out the trouble of the day and to tell me that the city is asleep and I should follow in its tracks.