Cannonading pace of His Choo Choos.

The young never look past the beginning, that’s why they’re so eager for sex, drugs, and money. The old are closer to the end, and procrastinate the truths they really want to finish with. This is the age of the cannon that inevitably fires at the next. A dust cloud of mangled lost souls, hopes and dreams in smithereens. We beg, moan, cry and groan about it, but we can all feel it coming, that’s the only thing we’ve all had in common, like rats scurrying towards the end of a flooding sewer.

Unassailable demise on train tracks into a mountain and we’re aboard with one-way tickets. …The irony of it all is longing for death when the right person wrongfully breaks our hearts. Lonesome, crushed hearts shoveled into the furnace, for a train race of a humane pace. Young and old alike; convalescent daycare taught lust before love; as always, the young never got it right because the former promised excitement before the value of their hearts’ contentments are unfurled. In hindsight, the old seldomly paid attention in class as well. Swell.

We all want a form of it, a piece and proof of it, and willing to die if it fails; what do you want, quick, we’re not getting off of these rails.

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