So I’m riding on a bus, late return, after movie and there’s this *** sitting on the side with a big sports bag tucked under his thighs. Leaning over, moaning, snorting in his age old handkerchief. He has IT, seen IT. Coming home from work, at midnight. Lonely and sad. Head all wrinkled, pensive. He’s sitting there and feeling the old man blues, just sitting, contemplating, man, just trying not to fall asleep, to return to his bed and his wife (probably), so the next day could go on and he could go on and be part of this machine-spinning-all-around-world. He could be like “hey, man, what’s your game, whatcha feel, man”. But nope, he’s beat, he’s beat to his feet, too little hair on his head, definitely too much in his nose and on his brows. “So what”, he would say, “what do I care, it’s all the game, man.” I got this feeling, that he’s seen it all, he’s a true man, a proto-deus creation. IT.
But what I know, I’m leaving on the next stop and probably won’t ever meet this friend of the world, delightful buddha on his journey.