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©2008-2009 =Skybluethinking
:iconskybluethinking:

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Very sick. Bloody influenza. Bus ride home was the high point of my dad. Probably review this later.

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:iconjesterseven:
Busses seem to me to be a sort of void between the realities at either end of the trip, a place to temporarily recover from the day. This poem reminds me of that.

--
The little devil on everyone's shoulder.
:iconskybluethinking:
He he.

That's exactly how it felt at the time. We're on the same page there.

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September 2, 2008
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