How long has it been--
Since I chased the thieves of all my sense;
Since I chose heartstrings over frontal lobe waves,
Hungers of the heart over milk and bread?

And at what time will I awaken
To a sun-drenched dream or a subtle rainstorm
Rather than nightmares or responsibilities?
---
Instead, I sleep in dishwater dreams,
Lukewarm and foggy,
And wake to thoughts of a queue,
A restlessness reserved almost exclusively for
A train station,
Where one waits, waits...
---
And which one comes for me?
And when it arrives,
Will I choose the fate prescribed on my ticket,
Or will I avenge all of the decisions
I chose not to make in past encounters with strangers,
Standing in queue, as well,
All waiting for the same hum and crash
In their final Destinations?

I ask all of these things, of course,
As I hand one of these strangers my ticket,
I step on board the cable car compass,
Riding into the flaming abyss.