Once again I find myself on the East Coast, the most baffling and inscrutable place in the world. I’m on a train, which is even more East Coast, and surrounded by men briskly brushing breakfast crumbs off of their cuffs before hauling out tiny little workstations and making makeshift trash cans out of the flimsy cardboard box their breakfast came in. They wear fleeces over a button-down and they sing to me! Their faces sing!!
On the Pacific Surfliner you see the back of a shaggy-haired dude in a tank top, and when he turns around you're still looking at the back of a shaggy-haired dude in a tank top.
I think I am the liquid man! with my tea, my water bottle, my seltzer, my smoothie. (fire, water, air, and earth)
This is poetry.
> im the business fiber boy, typing with my business hands
I'm 40, and I still feel like this whenever I do vaguely productive work on the train.
On the Pacific Surfliner you see the back of a shaggy-haired dude in a tank top, and when he turns around you're still looking at the back of a shaggy-haired dude in a tank top.
The East Coast! My homeland. I think you were on a train with my brother.