the only thing more piercing than the sunlight through the flimsy train curtains is the shrill voices of the adolescent gymnasts in my car.
tyra sleeps. i’m too wired. it’s a sunny day and last night i was biking desperately down an alley in the dark, holding a hand over my eyes to keep the hail out while lightning flashed and thunder roared across the nearby bay. i can’t waste it. i haven’t slept yet, having spent the better part of yesterday’s evening thrusting and undulating my body in passionate dance beside subwoofers so intense i could feel the bass move over my skin, like a flock of hummingbirds around me. early this morning, before light, i drank a hasty mug of coffee at devin’s as i was pulling on layers and luggage, and half of a terrible cup of drip from the train bistro. i’m awake but not alert.
sleep hums behind my eyes. i’d like to, soon. i’m an watchful traveller, gazing out the window, and the whistle is crying. portland, so soon. i’m going to lovingly destroy myself.