It was the freedom of the monsters

 The perpetual movement of signifiers. Cross country. Of phonic rails. In the dried-up fountain of the black marble of nocturnal water. Patience of the surprising trains. that they will come Like words without seasons. They fall in love with the eyes of summer nights; but two eyes are not a person, nor an outdoor movie character. They left without saying their daily chores. That way no one would think of interfering. It was the freedom of the monsters.