Sunrise

The seat I'm sitting in is barely big enough for someone half my size. Still, I'd rather be here than pressed against the glass or standing in the aisle surrounded by strangers so close they become another layer of clothing. A thick and sometimes smelly layer of clothing.

I'm eye-level with the ass of the man standing next to me; if he turns around, I'll be eye-level with his dick. I'm not sure which is worse. I begin to plan my exit: front door, side door - they're both blocked, but the front is closer. I have six stops to go. A lot can change in six stops.

I dreamt I was spinning down the coast in a convertible. It was warm and the top was down. Waves crashed against rocks and gulls glided over the waves looking for fish. The radio worked and it played music I liked.

I woke to a dark sky that's still dark. Why do we say sunrise? It probably came to be back before we knew what was really going on, and we still say it even though we know better. It works, it's easy, simple. That's what we do, we take complicated things and make them simple, even if they're not true. The sun doesn't rise. The earth turns.

In my kitchen, I found my dog had died during the night. What do you do with a dead dog at five in the morning? I wrapped him in a sheet and placed him just outside the back door. He wasn't old, I don't know why he died. Maybe he was lonely.

I'm about two stops away from having a dick in my face, but two stops after that, this bus will birth me back into the world. Funny, in some ways I feel safer in here, but life continues, the sun will rise.