the flying bus

good bye. good bye streets, good bye concrete, good bye people. this is what i always say when i step into that bus. i always choose carefully a place near the window, and sometimes i am lucky  so see the sunset. tonight was golden. a blanket of dark clouds has coated  the city, but the sun knew i was watching , and slipped them just enough to throw his fervent arrows on my way. as the bus was flying over the bridge, i stared into the sun until my eyes were scorched. as i was drowning into a sea of sound, i couldn't let myself founder, i stood afloat, gazing into that liquid gold, and this is how i died. i am sure i did, because i saw all my gear down, as the sun went away, and it was all covered in ash, as people were drawing on the floor, stepping onto each other at every stop, signs from a forgotten language.



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