:mattLandia:

I'm sitting on the Northbound connector - rockin' the Hyundai. I'm surfing morning shows, squinting into another late morning, on auto-pilot. Toucher, that douchebag, is on the radio occupying my headspace like a pair of wet jeans under the covers. "And now the latest from U2, Vertigo"... Uno, dos, tres, catorce.

I am in an arena, rows away from the left corner of the stage near The Edge. I'm wearing ripped jeans, a white t-shirt and I have the volume of a thousand unfullfilled men coming up out of my throat. I am a revolutionary, and I am coming up out of the masses. "Uno dos tres catorce. Uno dos tres catorce. UNO DOS TRES CATORCE" I am a sonic Che, complete with mustache, and I will overcome oppression.

I am heard. The blue lensed singer reaches down to a pop-politic comrade and I ride the shoulders of thick yellow shirted men into the light. "Your head can't rule your heart.." I am possesed. I am resolute against the light and staring across a sea of jealous discontent, my volume on 11, hurling lyrics to the rafters, "..of ink with gold, these boys play rock and roll..."

I swagger to the mic, forehead to forehead with Bono, and with large, pulsating rock and roll neck veins in full coil, I bend in back-arching euphoria. "Hello, hello! I'm at a place called Vertigo It's everything I wish I didn't know Except you give me something I can feel..."

"Feel-ee-eeell."

LURCH. The house lights melt into brakelights. I'm left here, on 4 wheels in a long line of industrial habit, in the sole company of Korean hi-fi speakers and cold toast, wondering how you write 'Feel' the way Bono sings it.