of smoke: E1, On A Train

In this body, the life within this body, there exists the promise and the history of smoke.

E1, On a Train: We poured into the train and I felt rough, like I could sneer and spit and piss in the corner. I wasn't misery itself but the sorry seed of it. The clouds all aboard, the cement and the sand, rotting leaves like gum underfoot, spoiling all sense of in-fashion, that is to say, my sneakers, gunmetal and clayed for the wrong-aged eyes of youth. And hurry R., while you can think: Don't retouch the bars because the hands that touch the bars are made filthy by the hands that touched the bars.