Neal Bowers

The light on the track turned out to be Venus, low on the horizon and bright as a headbeam, so much like an oncoming train the engineer roaring toward it braked and backed up half-a-mile, sounding his whistle all the way. Of course, he never lived it [...]

Inside my theatre of dreams the short flicks follow one another madly, all different but with the same sweet European sadness, the odd symbols that seem to settle everything but don't, as when a man gives up on love and sees from his window a child's [...]