A few words about snails

When he heard the last call for the last train that night he knew he would be stuck on that poorly furnished station. He wasn't really far from the train he was supposed to catch, he just couldn't move his legs. His head was like an angry sea, kicking away mermaids, gigantic octopus, tons of salt and stone, in an endless stream of stubbornness. It was his body, the problem was there, his body would be responsible for millions of years of regret and thousand of tears, lifeless, transparent, locked up in a deathly silence. And that was quite a difference from when he got there, one week ago, looking for answers and convinced he would be able to find himself in all that 'between the lines' thing.
There's no answer, there's nothing but a progressive sense of loss, an expansive hole, dark matter consuming all that breathes. Sometimes we tend to interpret everything as a dice game, saying to ourselves, it is just a matter of time, I can do it, next time I'm gonna do it. His head will never stop spinning, never stop to make connections, associations, defining and classifying things, but what a head can do without a body?
What he could do without what he had just lost? Since his legs were frozen and his arms were like dead and harmless baby dragons.
When time becomes an old ball of wax and future is all mixed up with past, nothing to do but keeping waiting for the next train, and the next, the next, the next.