Charles Bukowski "Bluebird."

I forget what it was like before I'd started reading Bukowski.

I'm glad I don't remember.

Station to Home

I’m sitting in Central Station only minutes after nine p.m. I’m sitting on the third allotment of benches upon the quasi-deserted strip dividing platforms Two and Three; only Eight and One house locomotives. An eerie silence pervades the entire complex, broken only by 144 sq ft television mounted on the northern wall, adjacent to a gang of vending machines. This colossus softly enforces popular music videos and commercial advertisements upon iPod-less late night station dwellers, a group that includes me in their ranks.

Aside from the various fluorescent lights and green exit signs, only the rolling, illuminated wall mounted ads serve to prevent any extended nocturnal daydreaming; the uncomfortable absence of the familiar hum of train engines provokes one to become introspective.