While sitting with the gleaming dim of sun and hoping the smell of death that has always lingered on each fingertip, I switch the page of the ****** substance, my mind is thinking where you have been, or where I am going and I think I've learned to hate this distance of home, on a train filled with the nonsense of people and filled with the tyrant desire to keep moving, we sway together like the emotionless tooth ache I've remembered I had now that I'm comfortably laying between the act of home and the act of drunk men waiting to scream, I hope as this seedling roots to the top I don't accusingly run into this smell again or the madness of mumbles, I hate being apart of this religion of laugher if it is not my own. I realized how selfish I sound, wanting to bask in my own silence, feeling the neglecting laugher this is exactly where I do not belong.