Russian Roulette

I love standing on a train track when I can hear the speeding train getting closer. I step off the track only when the lights of the train shine straight into my eyes blinding me. And even then I stand close enough to be almost blown away by the strong gust of wind which hits me on my face. I can smell the steel and the iron of the train. I can smell that funny smell you get from old machinery which has been oiled over and over again to keep running. I can smell the diesel and the smoke and I can smell my own death. Yet, I return there every time to stretch my luck. Maybe one day I won't be able to step back in time. Maybe one day I shall have something different to relate, or maybe nothing to relate.