the eleven o'clock, the one o'clock, the three o'clock...

Sometimes I can hear harmonies--chords--in the train's whistle, as if the train's coming into town is announced by the tuning of the entire brass section of a full orchestra.

I think my time in this town is coming to a close. I don't belong here anymore, much as I love it. I'll have to replace walking everywhere with the need for gas money and the understated scenery with much bleaker weather, unless the weather back home is getting better.

I won't miss you. I won't miss how you used to polish me until the varnish wears off. I won't miss the size of your ego ballooning so badly that I'm pushed against the wall by it, unable to breathe. I miss the old you, the you that cared (if ever so slightly) how I was feeling, although in retrospect, there was motive behind that.

I'll miss my father, for sure, but I'll be back to visit. I'll miss the friends I do have here, and the friends who find it an easier journey here than to my hometown.

My commitment to this dream of mine is about to kick into high gear. Keep it alive.

I've got a Kelli Scarr soundtrack going through my head (honestly, her music was the number one reason I watched The Pacific & Eddy the whole way through). I keep wishing for my dream body. I keep wishing for yours.

There's the train. Some nights I listen to the pieces of melody in the whistle. Other nights I mentally tell it to fuck off, we get it, you're a fucking train, now let us sleep. Tonight, it's regarded with indifference.

Come, future, bring me those baskets of bounty, and then toss them over the side and make me swim for the goods. Let's go.