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Melted snow seeps into my sock through the hole in my shoe. Before this moment everything was OK. But now. Now I am uncomfortable and all comforts of home assault me from all angles of their ingrained memories. Little demons. A nightmare fever journey through foreign winding endless black alleys inhabited by pleasure assassins whose poison is their very blood. Tendons strain as their needles ache for the bed of my vein to ooze forth the shadow carriage to Hell.

Happily tired on a free train as my plastic was the wrong type; the numbers must be raised. Should I feel guilty? I wanted to pay but couldn't. The uniform eyes me with each passing, screaming internal abuse that barely manages to bypass manifestation on her face. Sink into the chair. Become invisible. I wanted to pay but couldn't. Dodging fares, jumping carriages. It's the same feeling now as then, as boys we could pay but didn't want to. Bring down the system hurt the Man at every opportunity we ride for free can't catch us give false names anyway. Dodging caffeine riding mortgage whores we burst from the steel vein into crossed off no-go zones where wires burn and little criminals recycle greed into need among the carbon monoxide coated weeds whose only rain is orange piss or vomit.

Dry socks, surrounded by the little demons and tigers of modernity with some motorized annoyance screaming its territorial announcement for miles, everything has claws with which to gouge. When a machine does the work a man's satisfaction has nowhere to fall and no job is done better than one basking in pride.

Shaking nervously with each scratch of my pencil a weary basil plant at my table also feels the angry buzzing motor and droops further.