The bus was a relief. The terminal reeked. Cigarettes and sweat. Men grown weary of life, who chose to bathe in eternal fluorescence. We departed. The city unraveled into pastoral stretches. Patchwork of gold and emerald. The denim sky, buttoned by the sun. Occasionally, small villages. Flat, squatting homes huddled together. Schoolchildren in bright jerseys under trees. Soccer goalposts with missing nets. Fathers in their best suits riding bicycles.
The next seat was empty. Sitting across, a couple. They cheerfully opened. They had flown from Morocco. The wife teased that Antarctica was next. The husband had just sold a company. We discussed San Francisco, where I’d grown up. I soon returned to the window, replacing my headphones. Giant monoliths now peeped over the horizon. The grass retreated into the earth. The road too, rocking the bus. We climbed until white faces engulfed the sky. We halted. The sky was gray. The cold wind heralded a storm.
The Glass Temple The space was sunlit but without a source. The temple was walled with glass, revealing distant stars. The present stretched infinitely, until it was all I could see.