trainset mysteries

chemical imbalance - something's different - tolerance to zoloft? - the creepiness of feeling the brain fade out for a second like a DJ brushed the board, like a rogue rest in an unwritten fugal voice

was working on the railroad tracks in bed last night and well into the lazy sweat-slathered morning - woke up relieved, i didn't have to confess to murder for a few thousand dollars, murder or maybe just grand larceny, or something, crashing a truck into a river, pulling some scheme with my wet-worker robino from my noveaux-middle class place in the office tower above the river where the railroad bridgeworkers spend their paycheques on beer, and pull their own low-grade scams, while me, with the novelty of a lever, a tonka toy lever to the coordinator class, but something i could use to fuck over the rightful claim, of a family, a loud, cantankerous family, always the downtrodden bosses of people like me, like me, lucky to have them hire me for something a buck above minimum wage, that's union standard now, this is the future, like it or leave - well it was their truck, and i crashed it intentionally, didn't i? and they'd already lost their car to the rigors of roadwork and work and roads, but robino and me were sure we could pull it off, just destroy a few files, "clean" the office, and then we'd be minted, funded for party, it would all be worth it for that, we could get the real drugs, no need to lie to each other, that's what it's all about after this exhausting sprawling labor camp lagoon that never seems to end, oh, there's winter work coming. But now the navy cops are pouring into this building, I'm directing them to this and that file, acting suspicious, giving them tips, ingratiating, assuring them I'll help them get to the bottom of this atrocious crime against a poor but respected family, someone will pay - it's looking worse and worse for me, like that payer will be me, and i’ll be doing jailtime, and i’ll be like oscar wilde without the profound letters, and i won’t be able to talk about what happened, assuming i ever make it out, and i feel a confession coming on like a projectile purge, my mind’s own emetic, a confession to the most merciful ones in the world, who would be my mom and dad, i guess

what a sweaty wake up, and the worst dreams are still kind of nice, working for running locomotives and half-finished tracks - never got to the party - got wet though, it was sunny and then it was night - and then it was reality, except with no color, but still nice, like a jimmy stewart movie, but i didn't see no harvey, but i guess he's waiting for me, springing some trick that will make everything make sense, so i'm waiting for the miracle, see? i dunno why i try