At the station

in that muddled place between reality and sleep, in T.S. Eliot's shadow. Between thought and action, I neither move nor think. My plane is about to arrive and it has just left depending on your point of view. We could sit here talking of the paradoxes I am experiencing all day but I won't bore you. The thing that scares me is the Devil always meets you at the crossroads, at the in between times and the choices. This is not superstition, this is fact, They say the devil is in the details and they're half right, the devil's in the choices, and the details require so many that you're bound to screw up and give him that crack he's looking for so he can come and ____ your party. Here I sit, unable to make that decision, to close the gaps. My mind is too fogged and my body is empty. Why can't they just open the gates and let me ride free, propel me to my destination so I can begin my decisions again. I can't sit here waiting to meet him. It's sunset somewhere in this world and I can feel the lion prowling nearby, that well-dressed dandy in snakeskin loafers who keeps his mouth in the shadows as he talks so you can't see his forked tongue. You know him when you shake hands with him, those dry hands that make a rasping sound as he slides his hand into yours, pulling you in just a little closer and smiling like he's already got your windpipe. Watch out my friend. Make you decisions and don't linger, keep away from the crossroads and most of all don't go out during sunset; night's bad enough, don't compound it with the slow faze in and out of sunset. My plane's here, I've got to go. If I stay here any longer I'll lose my resolve, I can feel it slipping away already. Never let that voodoo man get you with his promises, remember that.