Riding home tonight on the late bus a hungry ghost propped up against the window half asleep while a group of late-teens sat on the back seat shouting and burping in youthful vigour--god, how I wished they'd shut up so I could sleep. Upstairs a gang of young urban black girls telling stories to each other simultaneously raising voices to be heard. And in the cabin up ahead the shadow and hollow mourning face of the long-haired bearded bus driver, staring out at the road as the bus rolled on through the night, detached from everything going on behind him, his only world the thoughts and memories floating across the dark screen of his mind. He is the perfect image of us all deep down--but me particularly.
That woman has opened up a world of feelings I've never known before. When I finish talking to her and go back to my empty house the separation hurts.