time is honey.

my head was pressed against the window of the f train making its way incredibly slowly towards coney island. the tracks of the express train were two lines interrupted now and then and more and more by the underground walls. then the different cables added dashes of color to my private movie. whenever a station happened to be on our way i would see the slowly moving reflections of the lights on the rushing floor of the station. legs of commuters waiting for the train were like static in the picture of a television screen during a storm. i saw them but they really were not what mattered right now. eventually the train made it under the east river. to me it looked like a longer period of darkness with a faint red colored stripe. it must have been some sort of cable, but to me it looked like that space between colors in a rothko painting. and on we went. in carroll street, the train stopped in a place where a warning sign happened to be right there in front of my nose. "no clearance between columns." and i imagined my body thrown onto the roof of an express train, and how it would be spread thin, distributed by a large machine. smeared like bread spread. chutney. salsa with olive oil. then the train emerged from underground. there was beautiful dirty brooklyn: the canal, the storage houses, the roofs of buildings showing off their brick in the setting sun. i was on the left side of the train, so i had the luxury to look towards the slope, towards the park, towards a reflection of the setting sun in the window of the train. then smith and 9th, 4th avenue... i managed to be the first person to get out of the station on 7th. i skipped two meetings today to go home early, because of an incredibly sharp pain in my stomach. nothing to write home about, and certainly the result of my eating that stupid egg sandwich in the morning. or was it that coffee, poured together at that unfamiliar and slightly weird place on 8th avenue. i am writing this in my bed. i will let my body rest a bit, so it can stop hurting. it still does hurt so well. it is nothing major really. it is actually quite funny how little it takes to knock me out. pain is something good when one has forgotten how precious minutes and seconds are. they flow invisibly by us when we have the luxury to feel nothing in particular. once hit by some even minor punch, time turns into that semi solid thing. it does not want to pass. it resists. it takes itself. (time taking time.) the ticking clock next to me on the night stand now still manages to swallow pretty gigantic seconds between each annoying tick (or tack?) I will sleep now. this will be good. and when i wake up, the seconds spent in the underground of sleep will have washed out my body from under the load of pain. just like that. i need to write more. i sound far too dramatic. time is honey.