Hey, man it's not like that. I ride the trains, and the city buses, and the funicular, and whatever other modes of public transportation strike my fancy. TRUEBOY is of the people. With or without panic attacks. I pop two Klonopin and I'm good to go. The sedative effect of the Klonopin is such that I enjoy the stream of my thoughts completely untethered from any system of moral checks and balances. There isn’t that cramping in the gut--the irrational, yet deeply ingrained fear of Instant Karma. With my arms folded and my eyes low--I look not at people, but through them. There's something Ancient Greek and slightly murderous about the primacy I give to sensations. They are real: raw and fleeting, like the other day I got lost in the yellow lights flashing outside the train car and the air blasting on the back of my calves and the Cds spinning on the plaid uniform covered laps of the school girls across from me. A red plastic bag from Virgin was hooked around an idiot yuppie's fat thumb. I'd been watching him for awhile and wondering about what was inside. After teasing me with a casual peek, he decided to fully unsheath the CD, gently edging it out of the bag as though it was something alive, but delicate enough to die at any second. His eyes turned glassy with pleasure as he held his purchase out before him. I strained to make out the cover and eventually saw that it was the Strokes, Is This It? He tore off the shrink wrap in slow motion, like an ant tearing apart a bug. He picked and ripped, dropping the plastic shards back into the red bag, rocking back and forth on his heels. I closed my eyes and pictured the waves above me as the train hurtled beneath the East River. I imagined all sorts of evil things about him, just for fun. Meanwhile, in my headphones Belle and Sebastian sang “There is misery, in everything I see, and all the people on t.v. after tea when life begins again, they’ll be happier than me…”