Nothing quite so surreal as opera on the radio

Every day I ride the trains. Today, some joystick-wheelchair-guy that spits on himself when he talks: he talked shit to me as I left the train. It was more crowded than usual on there, and he didn't like the fact that I had a bicycle with me. It wasn't a very popular stop, so I had a lot of space to ponder this particular asshole as I made my way above ground. The psychedelic tiles of the Hollywood and Western station turned my particular piece of reality into something worth noting. Eric says I should write more. Mom says I should get a girlfriend. Richards said I should do pre-med. When people ask me what I want to be when I grow up, I always dead-pan with "rockstar". Somehow I know that even if that kind of life really existed at all, its not the one I was meant to lead. But somewhere along the line, the joke started turning into reality. Two mutually exclusive worlds merging together or splitting apart or something. Sometimes I think I brought them into being. Me, my life, and everything I've ever known: all just a hologram brought into existence by an extra-physical comingling. When they finally break apart or unify or accomplish whatever it is they're moving towards, where does the hologram go? Sometimes I'll be staring out the window, the giant towers of downtown revealing themselves to me as the train makes its way around them from Chinatown to Union Station. "What if it happens now? What if my holographic world dissolves this next instant, just as easily as it came into being?" Right now I'm listening to opera on the radio.