journey no. 21 - burning bus

The bus is burning, sparks fly and up the stairs to the front where the sun pierces deep into molten-cut cloth.

'Ding, ding …'

And we're on the move, into the stream, belching smoke and distressed tarmac in our wake.

"Hi, I'm on the bus …'

Disconnected telephone messages weave through the seats from the back, endless mindless, formless chatter spilling across bored and sweating strangers.

'Ding, ding …'

Steps down, steps up, bustle filling empty seats with dog-eared papers and glossies with impossible dreams of virgin-white emasculated smiles. The drone of buzzing head-phones, inner cacophony spitting carelessly into the winding lines of human-traffic, immune to the blazon red stop-start car crash of another casual morning.

'Ding, ding …'

We're there.