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This morning I had the dull film of 1 dollar PBRs on my tongue. New York City swallows me every night, and I shoot through its tubes like a pathogen. I'd rather be a white blood cell, but those turn to pus. It spits me out northward early in the morning. The train heading upstate smells like urine and perfume from small, filthy bathrooms and business women named Cheryl and Elaine. The sky is slate blue and pock-marked like the skin of some sad elephant. I feel a vague urgency, but can't quite pin point it. Maybe I'll quit my job and run off to the woods. Maybe I'll eat dirt or laundry detergent like a pregnant woman whose gynecologist's advice was discarded. I am pregnant with ideas - but I am at a loss to articulate them. Maybe I just want to use the word 'exacerbate' more often - it is so impending and academic. It has no hesitations, but the opportunities are growing fewer and fewer. The outcome is implied, as is my implication, and henceforth.
Some kid in mini Air Jordans and a PokeMon tee-shirt won't stop screaming. The mother is dumbfound and sleepy with empty threats. Her three-counts burst a tire at two and three-fourths. The kid isn't stupid. He gets what he wants. She hands over the M&Ms and he squeals as he dumps them on floor. She smacks his arm and tells him to clean it up, which he doesn't. People step on them as they exit the train. I can see the small, bright shells shattering like the stained glass windows of a vandalized church.

The autumn landscapes pass by the windows like a film. I look around the train car and notice that all the actors aren't very attractive. All of the attractive people seem to choose other cars to ride in. How unfortunate. This film is so boring. Something should explode or have sex.