Friday had come, and, for a brief while anyway, it would remain. These are the moments when the good is ahead, waiting on the tip of a ready fork, and the bad is behind, managed and consigned to history. A dreary thought is flushed into the airless vacuum of your mind, where it eventually grows nocturnal eyes and stabs you.
But, for now (at least) the beast is weak and blind and you are alive and all-seeing. The world before you is a warm bed in the shape of a great open palm. You're standing over a throne and time is stopped.
The lights buzz by and you sit in your seat aboard the train, rocking with the ugly weight of the locomotive. The street lights are a blur and the traffic's headlights and break lights whimper a sad yellow-red song. Your song is the chatter of the train and its tired cargo. Everything moves down the gray metal slick and--facing the opposite direction--you watch the Earth spit up the roads and smile to think where they lead.
You ride and dream of home.
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