It might be ‘just’ something, it might be not what you’d hoped.
But it’s something.
And now I’ve lost that limbo.
After seventeen months, a new record.
The bus to nowhere is already where it should be.
It runs along an endless motorway, never stopping, always softly rumbling.
It’s dark out, never bright, all that can be seen are the cat’s eyes.
Inside the bus to nowhere the lighting is neither too dim nor too bright.
The heating is neither too hot nor too cold.
The seats recline, the arm rests decline.
There is always a window seat.
It’s a journey which lasts as long or as short as it needs to.
There are no destinations, there are no outside goals.
It’s just a few seats housing a few lost souls.
Some people ride for hours
I ride for days