I got on the train and sighed a contented sigh, watching the Astorian watershed move below me like pill bugs drowned in quicksilver, feeling the rhythm of the train on its thoughtfully meandering course.
But instead of admiration for the wonders of locomotion, the electric heartbeat of progress, the people all around me were tuned into some other atmospheric electrolysis--charged tentacles meshed into their ear holes and vining out to connect to the millienial pacemaker of humandom--musical phones.
In fifty years, when I am surely gone either by my own doing of insanity or murdered by a jealous lover, I will take solace in my absence that America, if she still exists then, will be a nation of morbidly obese deaf people. And I will not have to rue my bad fortune at being better to my body than my neighbor, who still is under the auspice that corn syrup Coke and Belvita breakfast bars aren't the problems, or something that he has bought into, but a fact of naturaldom. As if money wasn't once trees.
Am I better than him? No. Not at all. But do I despise him? Yes. If not for protecting the natural order, but not for want of protecting himself.
There is no circle of life anymore, just a giant mechanical cog that keeps getting greased and regreased. And soon, when the oil runs out, which it inevitably will despite what our inept leaders say after sludging mud from Canada to the Corpse of Christ, and all the water is polluted thus, only then will my deaf neighbors realize you can't water the money tree with soda. You can't speak of intention. You can't ignore absolution. You can't stay a creature of sublimation in ignorance.
Perhaps the train really only does go back and forth with the seiche of urbania, but it brings me to my destination somewhere in the middle. And I am aware and awake and alive the whole way.