say anything. i'm full of shit. it's like a bad dream i'm trying to forget, except instead of a bad dream, it's a pretty little facet i can't make peace with. sparse threads to the world, but at least i'm not lying to myself. the truth is a stupid thing to have alone. flickering lights, & trains that don't come. i'm tired of waiting, but i do it anyway. i always take the long route home, ride sleepy in the corner of the light, long, blue seats. what is the difference between ten minutes or two hours, when you don't know how to get home? is it the journey, or the getting there? even in  my bed, on the softness of black sheets, i'm still on some midnight train, and i don't know where i'm going.