Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated

That's right: I still exist, and I'm still doing stuff. I was left without a computer for a few months after my loaner was stolen, and lately I've been busy with school, but I'm still here. I exist in the minds of those who wish to remember me. Now: post toast.

Being an insomniac, a procrastinator, and a flash gaming addict, I often stay up until two or three in the morning. This causes me to be struck by inspiration at odd times of the day, namely those where the only people I can talk to are those in another time zone. Here's something I wrote last night, not that any of you care.

A subway in a tunnel. Everybody's got somewhere to go, and they keep on going. Some of the lights are out; the interior of the train is bathed in the eerie glow of the flashing lights on the tunnel walls. They pass too quickly to focus on one in particular. In reality, of course, they don't move at all. The lights stand still, it is we who move. We are permitted to glimpse them only briefly, as we hurtle by at speeds unimaginable to those who came before us, and yet we pay them no heed.
There's a girl, sitting alone at one end of the aisle. Brown skin and blue eyes, she's about fourteen. Too young to be riding the subway alone, really, in a city like this. But these are crazy times and she has neither time nor money to spare. She has a black backpack slung over one shoulder, her opposite hand clutching the strap tight, as if holding it was reassurance of its solidity, its reality. Reassurance that her possessions are not merely figments of her imagination.
The subway grinds to a halt, pulling up to a concrete slab littered with trash. The eternal travelers depart, setting off on their many ways. The girl steps off last, reluctantly setting foot on the dirty tile of the station, walking past a tall man in a tattered gray uniform as she does so. "End of the line," he says, his expression blank. She walks on.
She walks past the beggars, the bustling commerce, the broken turnstiles and the overflowing garbage cans, striding toward the grand concrete stairs into the overworld. Climbing the stairs, she emerges into the light. The sun is painfully bright, blinding those who rise from the subway station. An empty infinity of asphalt stretches out before her. A metal pole stands, desolate and alone. It juts upward, violating mother sky. It may once have held a flag, but whatever symbol lay upon that faded banner has long since been eroded by the passage of time. There is nothing.