Write four lines of prose that involve: Thomas the Tank Engine.
Max is currently obsessed with a Thomas book he got from the library with Kat a couple weeks ago. It's a set of five stories and it's the only thing he wants me to read to him when it's my turn to put him to bed.
I told him the other night that if he cooperated at bedtime I'd read three of the stories. And if he continued to do that the next time (tonight) I'd read four, and then all five the following time.
All I'm going to say is that I read him three again tonight.
And that I don't ever expect we'll get to all five in one night.
Baby watch update: I noticed today that any sense of urgency I'd carried with me the last few days was pretty much gone. Baby's probably lulling me into a false sense of security.
These days the steel of the railroad tracks is rusted and weak, without even enough strength to fight back the encroaching wilderness. It won't be long before they disappear completely, their existence only living on in stories told by wizened old-timers in broken-down bars. The towns and villages once connected by those lines will slowly fade away, dotting the countryside with ghost towns that no-
"Oh, shut up already Thomas!"