Growing Old

I'm sitting on a train hung over, burned out and nauseous; listening to Tool and melting into the sunset.  If you feed the pollution and disintegrating ozone to the malnourished dog, the rest of the gourmet sky becomes beautiful and the suns rays can pierce through the earth - like my eggs ever-easy every morning.  And if I flush out the beer cans left behind by last night's froshers, Ottawa's canal can flood my eyes with tears of stevia.