Sometimes, the light at the end of the tunnel leads me to the awkward realization that my train of thought has derailed before it even had the opportunity to hop a freight. While jumping the tracks of musical folklore may result in a similar rush, hormones in a hurry don't care how many channels were blended to achieve the final mix, nor whether the boxcar is responsible for keeping track of its riders, restless or otherwise.
Years of training have taught me that, when the going gets tough, the tough get hopping. The proof of this can be seen in the shoelaces tied together by pranksters, who never tire of abusing the semantics that would allow boarding in a more reasonable way.
Next time I'm overcome by the need to ramble, I'll be leaving my shoes behind. Putting the pushcart before the locomotive leaves the horse to decide what goes in the playlist, and as any audio engineer will tell you, two tracks of rhythmic clunking don't make a lullaby any more than four tracks improve the headroom in a miniature caboose.