It never stops. The long segmented worm trundles round the tormented globe, zipping it back together. We patch the rips from which poison oozes and make the world whole again. That’s what this machine is for.
I was born on the train and I will die on it. Behind our clanking passage, land heals, seed stirs. In my dreams, I slip from the footplate and tread the mulch, weed the crop, harvest food. But we have a job to do. The train never stops.