twelve smoke clouds.

I could never hear anything.

            It was around two o’clock, and I had squandered much of the day reading and thinking, so, I hopped on a bus. The 13. An accordion bus that at all times of the day was stuffed with people looking for their escape. I hadn’t a car and I liked the bus, it was peaceful in some strange way, the only way i was nowhere and nobody, just in transit. 

all is peaceful when you can’t hear. 

The bus slowly lurched forward as the hustle and bustle of the urban landscape fell quietly sparse, into the burbs and acceptable nakedness. I didn’t know where I was going, I never did, I just went, with childlike intent and amusement, 

                  forward, 

                               forward, 

                                           onward. 

Finally, the city was silenced by the space between, made a distant infallible echo, but still ringing in my ears. The 13 made its last stop and I followed all the sullen faces off the bus. The suburbs were terrible, always the end of my nothingness, and every second lead me to question my being here. All the houses stood on one another, reaching for the sky and the smoke clouds, like all the people living in them, stepping on each other, looking for the sky. I hated them. I despised their unconscious weekends and their petulantly wetted lips. They rode the bus holding bottles and cell phones. I didn’t like alcohol. it was the mother of monsters - hideous, reproachable beings.

 Everyday, the cycle would persist, the 13 slithered through concrete jungle to abject unconsciousness, and I rode it with them. The 13 became real, because everyone has to shut up and die. It was the path to self made fucking greatness, and i could hear all of it. Finally, I could hear all it’s agonizingly wretched noises. I could hear everything.

suffocating in twelve smoke clouds.