🗓️ April 15 — Musings from the Railway Sideline
By: Hobo Harry, Seer of Scrap and Sage of Smoke
Dear Wayfaring Spirits and Fellow Travelers of the Tangled Timeline,
This morning, I awoke beneath the rusted awning of the 3rd Street overpass, serenaded by the warbling hymns of a hungover pigeon choir. A good omen, if a bit flat in the high notes. I started the day, as is tradition, with Trash Fire Meditation, focusing on the sacred crackle of a busted toaster I fed to the flames. I inhaled the scent of scorched Pop-Tart crumbs and let my spirit drift.
Clarity came.
I saw visions in the soot swirl — a raccoon in a tiny cloak whispering, “The moon owes you a favor, but the vending machine holds your destiny.” Wise words, little brother. Wise words.
In the afternoon, I practiced my Can Whispering technique with a dented Chef Boyardee container. It burped steam and whispered, “Beware the man with too many shoelaces.” Noted.
I then wandered to the abandoned lot near the old Arco station, where the ley lines intersect and the pigeons walk in pentagrams. There, I recharged my mystical bindle under the alignment of three circling seagulls and a very confused drone.
Dinner was a luxurious feast of lukewarm beans (again) and a single fortune cookie I found in a bush. The fortune read, “You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.” Ain’t that the truth.
Final Thought:
The world’s a mystery wrapped in tinfoil, friends. Some folks dig for answers in books, others in spreadsheets. Me? I find ’em in dumpsters, fire smoke, and the occasional prophetic pretzel.
‘Til tomorrow, may your cans be full, your fire warm, and your omens strange.
With ash-streaked blessings,
🪙 Hobo Harry
Mystic of the Rails, Prophet of the Alleys, Sage of the Smokestack
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