My heart fluttering and heaving and my head a gyre I sit here now absently waiting for an end. That is approximately how I've been feeling recently though it is written in an extremely irritating way which I hope you can excuse. I have a penchant for writing in this completely self-ponderous and flowery manner and really can't seem to stop might as I try. Today I sat on the train. That dusty, grimy, claggy with dirt, ashen, body-odor-ridden, agitating train and I took it to the hospital (an innocuous visit to be sure, simply picking up a low-dose benzodiazepine). I had on my lap a copy of Pale Fire, and in my ears, knockoff headphones playing nothing at all and I read maybe a page but still kept the book out just for the slight possibility someone attractive might be watching. Of course, on the L (formerly known as the Market-Frankford Line) it was a performance that only a few older men would witness; one smoking an especially fetid blunt and another nearly hollering at him which was odd given their proximity. In front of me was an unattractive white man, horribly gauche and a curled mullet atop his head that I despised. The ride was short but ultimately unappealing and uninteresting in any measurable way but for some reason I feel compelled to write about it and type into the void and it is February 26th and I am bored because what ever happened on February 26th?