End of the line again. Travelling on trains is just the devil dancing in hell, a lesson in homonymy: just some smiles that sound the same. Next time you’re on a train take a second to look at those lip-curlers. They’re a stultifying fever-dream.
A negative-geared soul is still leveraged, and leveraged beyond all common sense. Aw, you’d have to be fucking mad to go it alone, to go it in supergloo pairs, to go it at all.
Trains, though, being what they are – tracks and all that: straight plantations, furrow irrigation, corrugation – you have to ride them to the end until it drains right out of you.
From the outset the process is one of dampening, squeezing the life out of electric blue, compressing its wavelengths to below 450 nm, rendering it both mute and the preferred colour of fourteen year old girls.
Thus compromised and brought to heel, this impotent hue turns axles and we slide along like a wet fart, looking for handholds and thinking of sheep and sardines and a can of eels.
Nothing to do but look around now: I’m told you weren’t so far away, but in truth you’ve never been so far away, and I feel like I’ve been riding these trains forever.
Written on Saturday, 1 March 2014