Like a warm thought soon dismissed, I cross your mind at a red light, galax-
ies between us and defunct solar systems, somewhere between fiction and
friction, where reality collides, intersecting with colored metro lines, and it is
just so sad when one does not have to seek directions. It means there are now
references, instincts, repeated gestures, familiarity, routine, prior knowledge,
it means one is not a tourist or a nomad anymore. It means anticipation and
premeditated resentment, and hiding behind newspapers and books and
genuinely not caring about where the rest of the people are going, making
the destination more interesting than the trip, because the trip has been seen
before and offers no surprises anymore. The thrill is now gone from the
process, and it is only the end outcome that matters. “There’ so much you
can learn from crayons” his blue T-shirt screamed as he stood in front of me
“Some are bright, some are tall, some are worn, some are colored. But they
all live in the same box.” Yes, but none of them has religious affiliations. So
there, crayon theory completely destroyed. Returned to sender in its box and
all. Trirty day satisfaction or money back guarantee applies. Just provide the
receipt, as you punch out the ticket while exiting. But there’s still one more
chance, one more stop. The token bought the brothel’s madame says “Good
for one” and Cialis is not tested on multiple attempts for one dose, so there’s
only one chance to procreate, to kill, to live. One chance. One stop. One
beginning.