in my dreams we name our baby after Waterloo station. its hydra-head and slant smile some sign that we were all meant to be. in this way. vaguely fictional and smeared. all our proof-sheet moments fading and marginalized. these hybrid days we send lallygagging ourselves into each other. like a car wreck on the other side of town that we heard about at the bar from someone who only read about it in the paper. or knew someone. who knew someone. who knew someone. and still the slick smell. the oil and blood heavy on our tongues. makes us feel like we were there. that it all suddenly happened to us. as if all we ever wanted was to go out gloriously. all gossip. and fire.