chasing the train way down

even now i can hear the tones. like the cold wind blowing through my open evening window. it’s like a call to those cool spring days when t. and i spent hours sipping the last tones of our coffees and talking through the disaster of passing cars and the fiendish ways our lives moved in and through and between the madness that makes up a life. these lives. passing even now through the not so fresh air of the window. brings the tone of my discontent. these whistles in the distance only remind me what i serve to represent. the bad luck charm. the something that always proves to offer up a delay. the frustration that makes you wish you’d stayed in bed that much longer. the crack in the sidewalk that made you wish you’d never slipped out from between the sheets to meet the day—at all.

i've not slept in days.