Monday

There's a large, thick ass frozen in the frame of my immediate vision. Iam jostled and tossed in various directions, at various speeds, by the mass of humanity rushing alongside me down the length of the tubeway. But the ass is all my eyes can remain fixated on, somehow. Iam reduced to a cloud of black dirt begging silently to the Mystery. The pain recedes quickly as music seeps into the barrel of restriction. My fantasies, however, continue to be fed by anything that appears to be under forty watts, which certainly must be an inconvenience to the passing seconds falling from the clothing of my fellow-travellers. I have to gamely resist the urge to dry-hump lost time. A horde of blonde wigs standing outside the station reminds me that the bell I've been longing to hear only parasites the field of telepathy this far aboveground, first by whispering in my ear, then by dropping soft, silvery tears onto my exposed head as I try to rush past. (Hats have never become me, I'm sad to say because I just love how they look on other people) Pitter-patter, the teal-blue swell of rocketry, bourgeoise transistors under a sweltering veener just behind me. I turn, straining to hear the dread-locked hymnals to a downloaded sun.