//------------------------------//
// Seeking Things 
// Story: The Things Tavi Says 
// by shortskirtsandexplosions 
//------------------------------//

	The train speeds across bridges and overpasses.

It's not fast enough.

I sit in my seat—or at least I pretend to.  My legs are jostling. Bouncing.  I can scarcely control my heartbeat.

What is this?

What's happening?

The green hum crackles from a distance.  I gaze out the window more times than I can count.  Adjusting my shades, I squint at a gray sky melting from the rise of a golden dawn.  Another city looms beyond blurring lampposts.  I spot skyscrapers, a white dome, a towering needle of steel and glass.

My ears pop with a crimson burst.  The train dives into the earth, screaming breathlessly into an elaborate subway system.

Minutes later, I hop up, practically bounding up the steps until I'm at street level.  The urban air belches into me—and yet somehow it's still a thousand times cleaner than where I have been.  With magic, I drag my luggage behind me, panting as I quicken my pace.

Before long, I've pierced the downtown heart of Torontrot.  The only thing more pleasant than the ponies here is the architecture—but I ignore them both.  I've sneezed my way through here on tours and I can do so again.

I brush by artistic districts, relying on memory.  It takes a bit of scrounging, but I dredge up the names of local music stops from my feverish mind.  I find a hybrid of a coffee shop and a record store.  I leave my luggage at the front entrance with permission from the propietors, and I launch myself at the vinyls that they have in stock.

For minutes... hours... I hoof my way through each album.  I stare at every cover.  My magenta eyes dart and twitch, paired with panting breaths.

When I find nothing... I move on.

I hop from block to block... record store to record store... sucking the musical marrow out of Torontrot with my heart and soul.  I must look like a mad mare to all of the casual patrons quietly rummaging through each shop's humble assortment of vinyls.  More than once, I hear a gasp or two—then golden voices whispering away, echoing DJ-P0N3's name.  But none of my quiet fans bother interrupting me.  The ponies here are nice, after all.  So I act nice back.  I ignore them.

But soon enough, I am reunited with my sighs.  Another sun has set, and I realize with aching limbs and tired eyes that Torontot has yielded nothing.

I should find a hotel to sleep... to rest... to eat.  But I don't.  I book it straight for the subway station and I grab the first train heading east.

I need to search more...