E tenebras, lux dormiens

On the last day of the trip to London. I grew sick on the plane, enough to throw up, with such splitting headache that never go away.

BART, which I walked toward with a heavy look, I rode nonchalantly. During my nap, I ignored the shuffle of people that came and left on the train. Were I of a better health, I would have been much fascinated, as any gay boy would, watching the to-and-fro over which we have no control nor any interest.

There was a boy with a bicycle and a headphone, I think. He got on from Balboa, or somewhere, and got off somewhere. I paid him no mind, though I sneaked a look on his body once in a while.

There was this woman, there was this man, there was this couple, there was this troupe of friends, this Chinese, that Hindu. All the while, I dozed, trapped between this state of sickness that I know my body tries with all its might to survive and this state of reasoning that tried to observe (as in out of body experience) and yet incessantly drifting off into dreamy sleep.

What strange time we live in, that we are so nonchalant that we cannot say as one famous man said, "Life has no better things than this," when he rode on a horse before the horse-less carriage came along.