Acid Food

What will happen when I finish this song? When I get off this bus and float into work? Will I forget about you? Will the weekend be lost? I texted you about being on a train together, but you didn’t get the whole picture: on a train, floating a little bit above the ground, listening to Mogwai and holding your hand. You would order champagne and I would take a martini, our destination hours away and nothing but a pedal steel refrain keeping the train afloat.
Once there we would alight, leaving our things on the platform and making for a set of hills beyond the station wall. A quick clamber up into thinner air would leave us on a mossy slope, where we would sit with some cheese and the rest of your champagne. Is the sun rising or setting? The light is the same. And all the while, a drum machine beats out its steady pace, guiding the whispered soundtrack to our expedition.
Shall we go into town? Let’s sample the local spirits and dig into something we’ve never tasted before; something that walked the same hills as us earlier today, when we were still floating our way here on a guidebook of high hopes. We could find a quiet table, somewhere near the bar, and take our time. And when the evening is done, collect our things from the station and find a bed for rest. Retiring beside each other, the drum machine fading as we recline to the promise of tomorrow being every bit as sweet as today.

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