Vague images of a musical notes. Platform of a train station. A suit uses me to stay warm. The hat grumbles about the late train. I can only stand by, patiently. I check my watch. It's half past; the lacking scent of orchids stunts the air. The hour of the Cock and all I can say is don't face the west. Only the east quarter may be traveled, until the desert is hit. Either a sea of people, a sea of sand, or a sea of blue. Nothing as far as the eye can take me. Not very far says the necktie. It tightens until My face matches the train paint. We burn across the continent, and luckily I fall naked, into my bed.
I missed the bus.
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