The trains are all stopped. The platform is one body. It breathes much too quickly. It heaves toward the stairs. It exhales your name. It keeps you from falling forward, from keeling over from the heat. To tell you the truth, you were the one who ruined you. You accomplished something. Congratulations from my heart.
Even you can admit that you had real talent, something of value, some kind of spark. It never had a chance. It never had a hope to blossom into something meaningful.
There were lots of people who were stronger than you. It was never some great shock to people that you knew. And you wilt a little bit when you think about that time and what's come of your mind. It was just last year that you met your real father. He told you you looked good, that you're your mother's daughter. You've since heard from him once. A birthday card in June, said he could call you soon. Love, Tom.
Leaning against the train schedule, you avoid contact with the person standing next to you. You listen to his conversation closely, a reprieve from the voices in your mind. If you could pin it down, the reason you're in bed on your days off. It's a constant dread. You see yourself choosing books over friends. It's no great shock to them. If you sell your records, you might have enough for a weekend in the countryside away from all the trains.
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