Methodical gulps and a concerned hand over the chest...deeply concentrated focus on a single spec on the subway floor. A mans lips are comically and unsettlingly circumvex, surely this isn't happening. Did I end up on the vomit train? A grey lady coughs parasympathetically into her scarf. Sharp chops of throat matter chorus through the aisle of the train, choosing its hosts with fickle dance like aim. Or maybe it's not fickle. Maybe it is directed by circumstance, lack of sleep, an immune system stress and inflamed from regret—a heap of old Halloween candy, a vulnerability, precedent and a promise— I always get sick, a fear and a demand— I can't get sick, celestial bodies, angry spirits, karma, little antagonists looking to shake shit up.
::subway sound:: :
My stop. I step onto the platform and leave the sick train behind, it's destination: bodily chaos. ::