exile

The bus is your last hope. Not that you have much hope. Someone who might have been here a fortninght nudges you and says catch this one. You catch it. This is not your city. You are in La Paz or Delhi or Kinshasa. The bus goes past symetrically lit corridors. A nowhere land. You sit back, resigned to your not belonging. It is part of being in a place where you find yourself. You rely on your instinct to take you to a place called bed. You are so close and yet so far.