It's only when the words won't come, a settling filter of dust, lost particles of thought vanishing upwards in the glazed-over light. It's that time of morning, the brief and sudden flash of energy and then back to exhaustion; the dissipated idea atomized into the same particles of boredom. Not boredom, exactly, but a kind of frustrated recklessness, compounded by the temperature inside and the way the sun never really rose because of the clouds. This typewriter thing, it can happen anywhere, even two thumbs can click together some kind of fantasy, half-awake and slouching. And I saw them staring so hard at each other from across the train that I thought they would break, typewriter and all. The loving and the hurting in their eyes, I shook off; it was too heavy. A thousand possible meanings to carry silently in a day, wondering and wondering.
