Weird, dumb nightmare, looking for a train in an oversized train station. My hitchhiking days, no money, huge backpack. One way ticked going home someone else has bought me. The train station is abnormally large, equally a Parisian shopping centre, full of theatres and production rehearsals, spiralling up and up, with too little logic to passages and elevators. I'm told by a man that you need to pay the conductor 50 bucks every hour on this train or they kick you off. But a woman taking my ticket, because I asked her twice, having not understood her the first time because I am not fluent in French, deliberately misdirected me a floor up and I figured I'll be faster running, if only I knew where I was running to. Retro station cafes, full of international passengers discussing exhibitions and book launches, rich people everywhere and the clock is ticking. The train was late, so I may still have a minute to catch it, but I just can't find it, yelling in a language everyone seems to disdain and is laughing at me: which way to the fucking trains? ...

This may be a result of an Epstein documentary I started watching last night, which sort of disillusioned me. I always wanted to go to New York, but the doc starts with this girl who sells all her three paintings for an absurd amount of money on her first exhibition and I thought, that's a dream! But it becomes clear she was rich to begin with and her headmistress pimped her out to rich people who then molested her, so ... Not a dream. 

I mean, when there's corruption in a communist regime, it's filthy and pathetic, but when there's corruption among the money people, it's posh and classy and they never run out of teenage pussy and FBI has no power and articles get written about them as if they are the Great Gatsby. 

Since the dawn of time until the end of time.