scribbles in Oregon

MAX:

"how many of us lie on a day-to-day basis? do you remember your first lie?"

i don't. how did i know i was lying? i must have felt bad, i mean, i had to have or else i wouldn't know, right? did i feel guilty? have you ever? these are questions i ask you on the train to pass time and we both know there's no point in filling your eyes with more non-sense. i get a sneaking suspicion that i'm dying. don't ask me how. it's just the way my bones feel bumping over these uneven rails in this cool, too cool car. yes, i think i'll explode quietly perhaps right here, right now, while we're talking about lying. lying. what a horrible little mess i'd make (i make) they'd never get this car clean before morning. and what about all the other commuters? maybe i'll quietly errupt when we get home, less of a hassel there, just close the blinds, no one else would need to know.

"what do you think people think about on the train?"

you would rather read your book. you shrug your shoulders. do we think at all? or is there just a dull white buzz at the ends of our spines? i can't stop thinking. ah it never feels good in here. slinking on trains, waiting patiently in my insanity. i rub my head, same metal wall, same sore spot. i'll crack my head open soon if i'm not careful.

7 VIRTUES:

i. insular. i. insular. i insular here. i feel insular here and the wheels keep moving in this place but i hover above like steam over the rich black expanse of french pressed coffee. this is the experience of newness in a manic dance techno-clubbing skin strip. changing hands, exchanging hands, what's to be dealt next? i calibrate myself to the circadian rhythm of the city, or try to at least, just remember to blink