No-Fucking-Where In Particular

I'm contemplating the veins of my wrist.
And cold metal in my mouth,
And grabbing the wheel out of his hand.
And swimming so far out in the ocean
I don't have the strength to make it back.

I'm riding a train
Headed southwest
Never planning on getting off.
Just looking out the window,
Endless sky and mountains and wheat fields and telephone wire.
Bouncing gently to the beat of the wheels gripping the tracks beneath,
Speeding into oblivion.

I'm tending the counter
Of a coffee shop with no customers.
A pit stop off a desert road
No-fucking-where in particular.