On a train. Mark chooses To Train. To blink in an out of existence. To pulse through suburbia. To pulse with mechanised momentum towards a pre-determined destination. To drift from gossip to conversation to tinny death metal to sleepless sighs. Sleeeep don’t visit, so he chooookes on the sun and the daaaaays blur into one. He grows old, he grows old. He wears the bottoms of his trousers rolled.
 Welcome Home, Son by Radical Face. 2008
 The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S Eliot 1920