I'm trying to take MARTA to a coffeeshop to do some work. Things are more or less normal except that King Memorial is covered in rickety old-timey scaffolding. I climb up it and just barely squeeze through the doors as the train is leaving.

I don't pay much attention to where we are but then the train grinds to a halt. The doors are thrown open. There is no driver: it was robot controlled the whole time.

The riders (of which there are many: this train is twice as long as your average rush-hour blue line) stumble out into a barren, tundra-laden, wild-russia landscape. We must walk to the next station; and it is a long journey. We consult the winds and decide the next station is probably Edgewood/Candler Park.

For some reason I am elected head of our public transit trail of tears. Many fall. We forge into huge snowdrifts and I am nearly lost to slush quicksand on the edge of a frozen river hidden under feet of snow.

We continue. The weather warms up some and the surroundings become more pleasant. There is birdsong. Many have died in our wake.

I see a great hill that is mostly exposed dirt and rock. I decide that surely, the next MARTA station is just over that ridge! I run for the hill and forget about my people. Old women die of cancer as I run and they lie prostrate all around me. I feel awful for them but I HAVE TO GET TO EDGEWOOD/CANDLER PARK STATION.

I scale the hill; it leaves me exhauste. At the top there is a road. I follow it but instead of going anywhere helpful it instead goes into a strange little town that has been left unchanged since 1876. I play some shitty boring game involving a wooden ball with some sooty 19th century kids and then I wake up.