Well, I was riding the CityLink one day, as I always do, every day, back and forth from Downtown Ninth Street to the City Space. Not going to work, or shopping or anything, just to go because I had nothing else better to do besides spend my time with others who had nothing else better to do than to spend their time with others. Although, some people were dressed to do stuff, like go to work, and you could always tell what type of work they did by the clothes they wore; I was dressed in a pair of rugged shorts made from old jeans that were too long anyway and a shirt that came almost below my belly-button. The business men had white shirts and ties, the factory workers had clothes wet from sweat, the drivers had on casual clothes, and everyone else dressed as they pleased, or whatever pleased others.

The train was old, pen and knife carvings lined the walls and slashed the seats, pictures drawn into the fog on the windows leaving a ghost behind. There were three seats to a row on one side, and two on the other. I don’t know why the difference, maybe because you can’t sleep on only two seats. The artwork on the train was very nice, done by local people who “deface city property” but if the kids didn’t paint the train, then who would? A drab, large piece of sheet metal going through the city just doesn’t appeal to me. There were cameras on the train on each end of the cars, or at least places where cameras might go, you know, a black semi-see-through piece of glass. I guess that’s so after whoever was bored finished killing everyone, they could see who it was. I guess it may sound bad, but it’s free, if not I couldn’t afford to ride it.

I had a window seat now, since the guy that was sitting there left the train, I moved into his seat so I could now examine the city as it streaked by. And I wondered why I did so, not like anything was different from any other day, same things for the past 4 months, which is how long I’ve been riding. (Not 4 months straight, of course, every day for 4 months.) With the roads beside the tracks with cars that drove, confined by a white and yellow line, usually, I wondered why if the road was so bad, why didn’t they just take the train like me and not go through traffic and sit here in the window seat, watching other people drive by being stuck in traffic. But, then if everyone rode the train, then why would we need roads anyway, and how would people get to the train so they could look out the window at no roads?

I sat there and watched the people get on and off the train at their various stops and I wondered where it was they had to be that was so important for them to leave their homes. I choose City Space because that’s the farthestthe train goes, and Ninth Street because that’s the farthest it goes in the other direction. Not like I know what direction each is, for all I know, the train could go in a circle, and Ninth Street and City Space are only a few feet apart, seperated by a few buildings. But the ride takes forever, I guess seeing as I don’t have a watch, and the other people that ride always look at theirs every so often, so I figured it must be an important watch and if they cared to share the time with everyone, then they would do so.

I had just remembered something, it had been a long time since anyone had gotten on the train and offered everyone a breath mint. I mean, days. Man, my breath must’ve been smelling bad, good thing no one was talking to me. That’s when I noticed a lady beside me and up front a row popped a mint into her mouth, and I was fixing to ask her for one, but then I thought that if I had bad breath then she wouldn’t want to smell it, so I didn’t. I just pulled up my shirt and smiled greatly, rubbing the cleanest part of the shirt over my teeth. Then, I looked at what was on my shirt, and flicked it off.

I don’t know why I look each time I do something like that. Maybe to see how bad it was, or how good, just depends. Since this is a major tourist city, probabally the biggest market is the sale of cameras and film. You can always tell a tourist from the natives, not by the maps as most people say, but the way they look around at every few feet, whip out their camera and take a picture of practially everything, a building, a street lamp, a store front, a clump of grass, and even this raggedy thing I’m in now, inside and out. If I had a camera, the last thing I would want to take a picture of is this, I have enough sights of it to last me a few lifetimes. I’d take a picture of the people in the city since I’ve hardly ever seen the same person more than once. Some of the people I would love to see more than once, some of the ladies I wish could have a permanent seat beside me. But, that would be torture to both of us.

I’ve always wondered why so many people get on and don’t say anything, they just sit there, and stare. I still haven’t figured out what they’re staring at yet, maybe they see things I don’t. Most bring along a newspaper, or they find one already laying around and pass the time with that. I still haven’t figured out why no one just takes the newspaper with them instead of reading and leaving it there. Who says that the paper there is free for all to read anyway? What if it was mine. Yea, that would be funny, if I had a newspaper and someone picked it up to read and I said Hey buddy, that’s my paper and they would look at me and probabally wonder where I got the paper from anyway, and if I could even read. If I couldn’t read, then why would I have a newspaper? To look at the pictures? A picture tells a thousand words, so if I could just look at the pictures, then I don’t have to read the story. In fact, what’s the point of having the story, just have a newspaper with only pictures. Then, all those people who actually write something wouldn’t have anything to do, so they would have to learn to take pictures, too.

Why do I think about such things? I guess because I have nothing else to think about, or at least I can’t think of anything. I’ve realized that since I’m writing these thoughts down, I can’t merly think freely as before, I have to think about what I’m thinking. And, I guess, so do others.