| listening to michael nyman - the departure.
i think it is very human to live in a way that is just desperately holding and clawing at sand as it is gradually sapped and drawn back into the sea's shore line.
that is because we are given a lot of virtual scraps. everything is image of shells with no substance. sad to fall for the magic act every time, every day.
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the life of a depressive
depressives are quiet people. they think to themselves either reassurances or ponder on eventual falls.
i suppose those middling hours of the night are when the most damage is done to one's psyche.
quiet hours
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| Falling into the drain.
The process is like any other process with many steps. Each step is equally deadly.
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the worst thing of all is not knowing.
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| Character:
Train Conductor
Listening to Elliott Smith. Just woke up on a Sunday afternoon, god I hate these dark late year afternoons where everything is dark in your room, it's a little chilly, and I'm just huddling in a blanket being alone and thinking about life. Work is so empty, riding the train all day and telling people business they can't read. But I like wearing the mufflers. Angie's off at church and visiting her dyin' grandma at Eve's. I feel like such an empty fool on these days.
I'm hanging with Dong in the Rec. It's annoying because he's Vietnamese and I can't really speak Chinese to him, so when Henderson has some shit going on and I want to tell him, I can't.
I think my hearing is dying from this damn job. But I like the mufflers. And we heard about this freak accident with Milton. He was running the A from Jay Street, and I guess his eye was bothering him or something. So he takes off his damn goggles and BAM some thing flies in from the tunnel, what a guy he leaves the gate open AND he takes off his goggle. So at Fulton, the doors just open, no sound, nothing, and finally after Canal he goes on the line and says to Dong, "Partner something wrong with my eye man." And Dong is a brick wall, and says "What?"
ef.
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