Science and Civility have left me

From the distance comes the lonely sound of a train whistle; long and sounding lost, faint as if from a barely remembered dream. It echoes in the yet-dark morning, companion in fading to the night.
The carousel of days spinning. Summer days, fair days; winter wet or white and cold. The seasons turning. A few short years left on the ticket. Every winter the conductor stamps another hole into the now creased and frayed, finger limped card.
I remember it's early crispness. The sharp corners and stout presence in pocket. The wish for more holes. I remember when it had 25. Then I dreamt of immortality; the end of aging.
The promise of science and the rejuvinating pass. Science and civility have left me. I hear the train whistle these restless nights.