trains keep pulling into the station, zepplins keep hovering overhead, & cog-boy mordicai keeps chugging along, all gears & pistons & whistling steam. i'm a coal powered contraption; fuelled with dark lumps of dead things long compressed, my heart a slow-burning furnace. i am always roused to ire, i am always full of malice. i think a lot about malice. maybe it ranks up there among the top three thoughts. it sure rates as perhaps my number one mantra. the mandala i trace on my walks around the neighborhood. i feel like some trace perfumes linger in my clock-work, here & there, remnants of dreams forgot, but it is the dark shards of glass that rattle about in my brain-cage that concern me the most. fragments of home & hive. i know i sound like a broken record, but you see the needle is in a groove so deep it might as well be a chasm. i keep finding myself sitting in the shower. i'll get so rusty i give the whole world lockjaw, my life a nail to be stepped upon.