yakksoho
Bluelighter
The weather outside is bleak and the river reflecting the white sky of fog looks like an endless field of snow. I have never seen snow, never been outside of California. In the inside across from me a young overweight girl is curled up agains the window, leaning her face upon her palm in a half-sleep, like a dolphin, watching not for predators but for her stop on Capitol and 3rd. She looks so comfortable, more comfortable, even, than little girls in white linen gowns who live in postcards from the 19th century, snuggled up wth their cats on a well-made British armchair.
The air reeks horribly of passengers' cumulated breath, the must of their purses, the polyetheline in their shoes, and the wheezing air vents on the floor. But as I grimace at the hard cold metal wall opposing my spine as I lean up against it, I ca'n't help but think there is no place that I would rather be, lost in my own thoughts on a productive-less journey that seems to be endless, on the striaght, long river highway to Sacramento.
The air reeks horribly of passengers' cumulated breath, the must of their purses, the polyetheline in their shoes, and the wheezing air vents on the floor. But as I grimace at the hard cold metal wall opposing my spine as I lean up against it, I ca'n't help but think there is no place that I would rather be, lost in my own thoughts on a productive-less journey that seems to be endless, on the striaght, long river highway to Sacramento.
