Los Jalopniks on the Metro

I'm alone, sitting with Wert's broken glass. My four walls follow me through my past. I was on a Paris train; I emerged in London rain. And Spinelli was waiting there, swimming through apologies. I remember searching for the perfect words. I was hoping Wert might change his mind. I remember Spinelli sleeping next to me, riding on the Metro.

More sleep-deprivation from Gay Paree here.