Train Problem

I have cracked the nut of death and spilled its meat from the shell. It was simple really, like most problems when you see the answer. You see, I was riding the other day, rocking away in the only cradle designed for babes out of arms. Half dozing, half cats-cradling, and three quarters thumb-twiddling when it came to me; they told us to meditate on speed and distance, clocks and schedules and other improbables that only further prove that maths are a clownish science and not the provenance of travelers. But if we turned things inside out (like an orange) and I was riding time instead of it riding me (like a string-pulling doll), every stop would be another hereafter. Each Cottage/grove/forest/town/shady/village its own kingdom of heaven and hippie commune. All are equals in immobility, I thought and felt a goose walk over my grave or maybe it was a six-legged metaphor. We're on schedule for infinity, baby, and on this route the whistle stops are without number.