The Only Living Boy in New York.

Sometimes having a really vivid fantasy is almost as good as actually doing it. Like tonight, I was riding home from work--in real life I was in the back of a cab and it was four in the morning and I hadn't made much money. But I immagined it was not so late, and I was riding my bicycle over the bridge and through the streets, and everything was panoramic and sparkling, and "The Only Living Boy in New York" was playing from the mystery soundtrack somewhere. And I immagined this so hard, that by the time I walked out if the cab down the street, I was so happy that my journey had been as full as it was. It was like I had really done it. Just goes to show, our immaginations are not only good for purple people eaters and make-believe girlfriends.

So the trick is that I seem to be coming home from work every night / morning, and getting frusterated about something before I go to bed. It would stand to reason that this is because it's the only time I get to sit alone and think--which is fine--but the end result is that I have been furvently writing about it on the internet. As if that will solve something. And I know that really, no one wants to read someone's angry blog, no matter who they are. And that's assuming anyone reads this in the first place. But the point is, I shouldn't be so bothered all the time. Or, if I am to be bothered, I should at least mix it up a little bit. With some not-so-bothered things.

So,,,tonight I was on a bike. And I was riding in a montage, and my breaks didn't squeak, and I never wobbled at the stop signs, and nothing was moving as fast and slow as me. And Simon and Garfunkel were young and singing again, and it was only for me. And eventhough I was in a taxi cab, and I am not a boy, I was the only living boy in new york, just then, for as long as I could think it. Sometimes magic is so close,,,