From the train the world beyond the glass is curiously detached. While the tracks slip underneath the train at 80 mph, I sit still for hours. Short segments of a town's daily cycle — 8:16am New London, 9:08am New Haven, 9:31am Bridgeport — run concurrently with the long rhythmic pulse of the rails. While the land rushes by in a blur, I fixate on details and see what people have hidden out of sight, behind a fence, down a bank, in back of a shopping center, on a roof; machinery, trash, rusted skeletons of old railway equipment, wires and cables. Only the grafitti artists seem to realize that they can play to this audience, but I appreciate also the accidental artistry of obsolescence and utility.

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