Bellicose silence, stranger and known, recharging slowly, slowness in nowhere, perched on a seat facing backward on a bus. Lately taken to crossing off ticks, no more crosswords, real sunglasses, soft blue cotton on unlitigant knees. Steps and stares, an empty anguish, vulnerable it seems to nonsense remarked, susceptible, to non-ideology: Blue suit jacket and blank new attachment, accounts from the boom, woven and spun, each the other the other its own, intrinsic webs, patterning inward. It’s about to rain. And as one remembers another asunder, we were just two leaves, fallen on one another, stuck by that rain and frozen by the season. And now you see it was perfect weather, to hold and to stay, to evade decomposition, if only for a while.

The CEO of your own company, for what it’s worth, akin to being on this bus, in a foreign country in peacetime. The old modern bus, full of comrades, men conscripted to the task of maintaining peace – like cats like fish – and everyone on the bus has a love letter romance, a guy, waiting, like it’s Dallas, ’63. But you don’t know anyone, and you’re no soldier, and nobody is waiting, and home is a broken mirror. You’ve become the CEO of your own company, that jokey wine conversation about our sexual organs, the picture from your movie in Paris on a mattress, the feeling, as the power cuts out, like it often does in the Himalaya. Your guide, the sub conscious, waves and palms. And you forget to pretend the interactions are transactions.


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