I felt like Bruce Springsteen again

I never want to be one to judge a man by the color of his sneakers.

The train operators voice was young. Probably not much older than myself.
"You must transfer at the elevated tracks at Clark and Lake. Again, the red line is running on the elevated loop structure."
I don't want to be the lord of the flies? Why are you following me?
The screeches of rapid transit are hurting my teeth.
I forgot to call my dad back.

At the LaSalle stop there is a piece of art on the wall and nobody knows it. It's something like the fourth blank Ad space, on the forest park side of the platform. It's a window looking out to a desert and there is a really dark cloud lurking overhead, like it might actually rain in the desert. (Ha! The cacti could only wish!) There is also a faint replica of a flower. It is a picture that could have been made using only pastels and indian ink. I discovered it on a rainy thursday night. I was on my way to an adventure that would later turn us all into living picture frames. Why am I so good at this!?

The cta reaks of take-out Chinese and the idea of poverty gone all wrong.
I guess it's been looked at which makes me hate it.

The room is great.
The space is neat.
It's simple, yet has character.
It's togetherness, for a change.
Besides it's tiny appearance
I didn't want a lot of space.



I remembered that my soul color is orange.
I'm glad it's a word that has nothing that can rhyme with it.