fuck me, I'm high

came across the new orleans public belt locomotive once again this morning. again it was by its lonesome, patiently waiting for forward movement of the throttle, but hours later on my return home it had had no such luck. it reminded me of a past evening. the sun had long fallen below the earth, only to heat the surface from below as if the ground was cast iron. the air in the french quarter carried the aroma of some putrid and burnt fecal matter, but the river was close. and through the french mise en cine of the market; rows of trembling outdoor ceiling fans, staggered lights and iron columns deserted by their handlers, you break into the open and up towards the railroad tracks, past the industrial port onto the mississippi levee. the breeze is soft and non-aggressive, as is my current state of drunk, though both are still hot to the touch as is evidenced by the flesh. it is a night much like any other summer night in the crescent city, extraordinarily tireless and slow and in desperate need of a breeze ... this is a ride home I make often and there is very little of it that I do not find familiar. except for this locomotive. even in the darkness its presence is large and attractively forboding, it is an iron beast painted a red so dense that you must stop and admire the weight. 216 tons. the cabin is empty and the lights are on. the engine is on. but it is still and at rest in a ceasefire motion, restless in its static condition. this is how the story always begins, the fantasy tale unfolds. a normal routine halted by an out of the ordinary something, an opportunity to unravel the real and find yourself adventureous, extraordinary and unafraid. and so you hesitate, wonder, contemplate further exploration, but of course, you know that there must be someone nearby, some presense of authority set to thwart the progress of your imagination, someone employed to keep reality at peace. I never even dismounted from my bike as the possibility of escape seemed an obsurd and childish notion. but perhaps this is what it means to grow old? that logic outweighs imagination so that we reamin safe and sound, feet firmly rooted to the concrete and the trains disappear into the distance only to haul cattle from one place of industry to the next. and nothing more.