The Ticket Collector (Trains opening paragraphs)

He lives in a black and white photograph. A shadow in the shape of a building reaches down from the sky, covering his face; making his nameless. He wears a work suit; black shoes, white gloves. His jacket is faded gray from steam; his gloves are laced with soot. Beneath them his hands are wrinkled and shake with age.1

Sometimes in the picture he's stepping on or off a train. Although trapped in a film slide, a forgotten negative, he's in constant motion. Other times he's seen walking from train to train, car to car, person to person. Collecting tickets. Collecting hopes, dreams, plans. Collecting lives. From time to time he's even seen eating his lunch or picking up a child's dropped toy, but more often than not he is pictured standing in front of the station, a building as old as hismelf. A shadow in the shape of a building covering his face, making him nameless. He is known only as the Ticket Collector. Compiler of dreams. Assembler of souls.

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