Studio Notebooks 2 : Union Station, May 10, 2012

Commuting ladies wearing sensible pantsuits, reading Eat, Pray, Love on the train.

How long does it take for me to feel like I am here?

I noticed a small puddle of bird shit on the armrest of my seat.

I did not change seats.

I can feel the bones in my face now.

The second the pen hits the page I am absent.

The space keeps moving, with or without me.

This is so much like fishing.

Stay here until you get something.

The sex workers and their pimps are escorted outside.

If you have enough money to eat at TRAXX, you can stay here all day.

Janitors: ABM Janitorial Services.

Talked to a cop. He said I could sit here as long as I didn’t bother anyone.

Two weeks ago, she found a human leg at the Highland Park station.

Lightweight, collapsible autonomous poem-objects.

We should be able to carry everything on the body.

Simultaneous absence-presence.

Self-elected invisibility is the greatest subversion.

The drunk guy followed me into the bathroom.

7:43 p.m., coffee, $1.65

Do we really want this space to be anything other than what it is?

There is nothing stylish about this.

A sleeping woman has her things searched and discarded at 9:28 p.m.

There is nothing stylish about this.

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