When the Buses Start Running

You’ve been up all night. The sun isn’t up yet because it’s the dead of winter. You’ve listened to all of the songs and smoked all of the cigarettes and lived all of the clichés that people told you were bad for you health past a certain age.

So with nothing left to do you lift the blinds and look out on rain swept streets. You could read a book, or write something, but your brain doesn’t want to do anything more than keep you up. So you think about the new day that you’ve managed to experience from minute zero, and try to think about something positive. That might be a new leaf that you could turn over, where you try and think positive for once. Then you decide it’s better to go back and sit on the couch.

It’s still a few minutes too early for coffee, and you’ve finished all the whiskey you had left. So you’re stuck in a kind of purgatory; too early to do anything, and too late to rescue the day you just left behind. This is the time you have to live; a time of rain swept streets and reflection. An old movie rattles and hums out of your TV, but you haven’t been paying attention to the starlets drinking the gin and the pool sharks bleeding old-school-cool out of tweed suits.

Then you hear something rattle past on the street outside your apartment. It’s the 63 Bus, and it tells you that the day has truly begun. So you crawl off the couch and go and start to make a pot of coffee. You don’t get to greet the day often, so you might as well enjoy it.

Besides, the second 8 a.m. rolls around, you’re going to be falling into bed, unconscious before your head even hits the pillow. And if you do end up being awake for the 30 seconds post drop into bed, you can fall asleep to the symphony of transit, and the sounds of people walking past getting something done with their day.

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