Here I am again.
On the train.
To and fro.
Today I'm sitting next to a woman that smells like rice and burnt hair.
Fro and to.
Two hours a day.
I begin to imagine eating a bowl of rice and burnt hair.
5 days a week.
Under normal circumstances I would change my seat but she is sitting on a piece of my shirt.
Pinned to my seat like a passenger in a car wreck, waiting to be rescued by the jaws of life.
52 weeks a year.
Today I'm on one of the older trains. The perpetual smell of shit and bleach fill the air. The two scents are paradoxical yet destined for each other like Hannah Horvath and Adam Sackler from Girls.
Which is worse? The smell of shit or the smell of bleach?
I want to believe there are more important things to contemplate.
I'm a working man.
These are my cash and prizes.
Bleach and shit.
Rice and burnt hair.
Give or take I've spent about 11,000 hours of my life on the train.
"Siri, how many days are there in 11,000 hours?"
"I'm sorry. I am not finding any ways to count eleven thousand flowers."
"Fuck you Siri I'll do it the old fashioned way."
That amounts to approximately 450 days.
It's that song from Rent.
No it isn't.
My wife and I could have had sex 216,000 times.
I stare out the window of the train, speeding past countless, meaningless things.
Passing by life. Life passing me by on the train.