So, I've been hanging out down by the train's despot. No, I don't ride, I just sit and watch the people there, and they remind me of windup cars in motion, the way the spin and turn and jockey for position's, and I want to scream out that is all is nonsense, your life's one track can't you see it's pointless. Just then my knees give under me, my head feels weak, and suddenly it's clear to see it's not them but me who's lost myself. I dare not be, as I hide behind these books I read while scribbling my poetry like art could save a wretch like me with some ideal ideology that no one could hope to achieve, and I'm never real, it's just a sketch in me, and everything I made is trite and cheap and a waist. Of paint. Of tape. Of time.

It's not as bad as all that, really.