I'm sorry about the Thalys shit

I want to apologize to anyone who linked to the original Thalys link, the target of which was "every second presses into the one before like train cars", posted on the Forth. I didn't realize that it would install that program onto your harddrive. I got one too. Ourvir, Suspendir, Quitter. Sorry. The link is different now--it's a TGV picture gallery. I think it's a Belgian site. Actually I just checked and it might have fallen off. Fuck it.

I'll tell you though, it's nice to think of trains. Especially now, that I'm going travelling. My head's full of travelling songs. Sterling stole my Magnetic Fields, Charm of the Highway Strip. We've got that in common--a love for those blurred, yellow lines. Baby, I was born on a train.

I can see you now, with your pommade-thick, bleached hair and leather jacket. Kind of like Kathy Acker. But with those Yankees batting gloves and the beat-up orange Beemer. Blasting Serge Gainsbourg out of the suped-up speakers. Back in the day, but not too far back. You were badass, you were scary to be around. Sterling Fassbinder used to like to drive.




The point of all this nostalgia is to let you know that I'm hitting the road. Minnesota's over. But I'm not ready to go back to Brooklyn. I want to see some different things. I'm also super out of it. I feel like my brain has been washed in cold water and hung out to dry on a taut, fiberous line. Truth be told I need to regain my senses. I didn't drink when I was around Will. He never said I couldn't, but as I was talking his ear off about how it was such a problem, it seemed that getting blasted would be in poor taste. I wanted him to think that I had a problem but not a REAL problem, like I couldn't keep composure without at least some late night brandy to take the edge off. Instead I worked on convincing myself that I'm too physically ill to risk getting drunk. My stomach's in ribbons and my lungs feel full of cheese. I decided that I have to pull it together before I go back home.

As I didn't tell Will about this site I guess it's alright if I point out that he's covering the financial details of my trip. Nothing he couldn't afford. Willingly or unwillingly (no pun intended.)

But I feel too fucked up too talk about him right now. I miss him like crazy and it's only been a couple of hours. He's working late and won't even know I'm gone until past midnight. That's fine. You know--it doesn't concern me, not a bit. This is how I am, by tomorrow I will have forgotten all about him.

"You're my friend," I told him, looking straight in his eyes.



It doesn't concern me. It doesn't concern me.



C'mon, Sterling, you know how it goes. I see what you say--and I say it better.