Pesky floaty dreams

Train Yards
In this dream, there is nothing straightforward or traceable, only rusting rail tracks in a trainyard, lined up in a row, but to what junction or destination; the cars are connected together and with a hitch and sigh, move forward.

There's this idea of obsession in reaching our destination, or finding absolutes in our heart. The Powers That Be have confiscated the greatest minds of our generation, then locked them in a windowless room to slave over the end of Pi, numbers clicking by, pens scratching at carbon copies, tearing through and hands starting the process over. Scurrying fingers and corners curling on the edges of the forms, the door swings open into the room for the first time in God knows how long, stirring dust and moving gazes... what is out there? Still, no one moves... I am not one of those minds, but I know the smell of the air... it is suspended rain, and the turbulent Atlantic...