a triumphant return to form

the sounds of the trains pass through day and night. shrill and almost broken by its own massive weight, it is a song played on miles of weathered iron. the train, dated industrial progress, very much ghastly and peaceful and alive, is an instrument shrouded by plain sight and its uncanny ability to remain unchanged by time in any tense. what is left from visual perception is the sound of the unreal, the music that glides between dreams and conscious thought carried delicately by the contradiction of its mammoth physical presence. the song falters only upon the imminent discord of its human element and the fucking train whistle, a wholly inappropriate term considering it's capacity to mind-fuck even the dead. it is object proof that we simply do not know how to listen. ironically, these sour notes were designed to save lives at the expense of beauty and my fucking nerves, but I find that at the very mention of this, I draw blank stares and an ill feeling of selfishness on my part, which, by the way, I happen to resent. I think about this as I sun myself and watch the slow drift of the clouds that darken as they pursue the why and now of the present moment. but I don't complain. it is only what I think about or create in my mind out of sheer boredom and spineless lunacy. how else can I ignore my work? my own writing these days I find to be repulsive. I can't stand to read any of the dirt, which is unusual, nor can I determine whether or not I am repulsed first by the days or my writing or both taken simultaneously. I sit as a man obsessed with nothing, which somehow must be unhealthy. mosquitos are endowed with a greater purpose. I can not even fabricate the sense of one.