Devil Monkey Boy

A signal too complex. 120dB, 91 degrees Fahrenheit, wind 6mph, 20 feet below sea level, .05 blood alcohol content, and countless tons of gleaming mass transit. Latch on to any one thing and you might know it. Two and it fills you up. Three or more and it's too damn much. And then there's color, form, dialogue, wisps of plot, a cast of hundreds, and all that other shit that can't even be quantified.

Stop.

Where am I? The 2 train, post Happy Hour. Brooklyn now, Borough Hall, bladder full. 67mph, if I had to guess. Truth is, I have no idea. No more clue than guessing the number of jelly beans in the jar. 986? 6894? 3.2356 x 10⁶? Do I win? I never knew then. I don't know now. Fast is all I know, and drawing swiftly home.

Now Hoyt, now Nevins, on Dancer, on Prancer. Atlantic Avenue, my own sweet AA. More than 12 steps down, more than 12 up. Then out, and blocks to go, blocks to go before I sleep.