If my brain were a 19th century railroad yard (not at all a far-fetched metaphor), right now it would be full of misplaced cars, and also the scene of considerable chaos likely to result in wreckage. I hear the conductors and engineers shouting "stop, stop", but the brakemen are all woolgathering. Ah, my thoughts are all about to be spattered over the front pages of lurid newspapers! Why don't I have a Casey Jones icon?
The moon is nice tonight, though, floating in soupy haze. Mmmm, soup.