The red line speeds its way through the tunnel, creating a machine roar that echoes through the bustling city.  The train’s loud cries are a part of daily life, it is the sound of progress, of facilitating hard work, getting it done as that saying once went (years ago when the red neck movement was hip)

The train is affordable, reliable, and sometimes very speedy.  Except of course, once the red line passes the Addison stop, all of this modern progress and hype is simply thrown out the window. Once it passes that last stop of dignity, the train simply gives up on life.  It moves slower then a grandma towards a sale at target.  The hustle in the step is so quickly forgotten, and the monetary unfortunate are left to the fumes that the train has left to unjet us home.  It moves so slow that it is just a little bit faster than walking.

The wealthy people who live further north of the select downtown and midtown stops, they take the purple line.  That train was invented for rich people.  The purple lines runs right next to all the stops north of addition, but will never ever stop at any of them.

In this slow desert of transport, I sit impatiently waiting for the most unambitious train to heave me home.

Its hard to be creative when you are always tired.  Where is the inspiration when even mundane movements are gruesome?  Where is the hope when the justice of any pay off is not there?

I am afraid of working too hard because it is going to make Marigold dull.

I am afraid of loosing her sharp edge with the dulling intensity of work.

-Me