Here this morning under the dying Autumn sun the bus rocks over gravel slick roads and fluorescents flash steadfastly over the slated cherry slumbering eyes all while a metal bird chirps excitedly to the rear. We call this something. A life. A routine. A ritual. An exit. I wish I could tell my child this is all right. But how come? Everybody is on a shoestring, hamstrung into a bus where we grit our way no different than those that once creaked and cracked and broke on once our ironic laden rennaisainced oceans. How come? Can you tell me the difference between this world and a death wrought on flowery treachery of servitude? It matters little this that answer, the key to that lock-in-step thought is nothing next to this: that I am already free to think as simply as I breath and to embrace as humbly as I may even as this day that cools under the shade of this our modernity also warms contentedly to this the beat of our unimagined and simply real humanity.
And if you still cannot get off at the next stop then listen carefully to that tin brittle bird in the back because it is no bird as much as it is the creak and the grind of metal on metal, the scrape against casing that bullets you down to the dry well upside and inside out in Murakami form. Time to get up and get out. And remember your time now is no more than a monkey face and some wrinkles done beautifully under a mop of gorgeous hair. Smile.