University students get on the bus discussing religious empathies, and end up dabbling in the intellectual arguments about beliefs - the beliefs of university students during the day, not the night -, and this common ground usually cracks from the earthquake named Stance. Oh the downfall. Oh the irony. Our one true downfall is the one true light, and the one thing that has kept existence cycling.

But at least there is rhythm in Trance, as we exit.

The one with the tightly-knit hair, he’s almost got his Bachelors, I can tell. His dark face seems shadowed to me, but the bus is bright. I feel extended from my iPod, like my headphones are reaching out the window, and I’m gliding alongside this rumbling machine of wide turns and rushing stops.

And I am as woolly as the scarf pinned to me: it’s morn.

He said something about atheism – the fool: that in itself is enough for me to hate him. He said something about agnosticism – I can understand a man of agnosticism. The girl, the soft handed girl, she is of the Judeo-Christian nature. I know this because she mentioned her ignorance to genealogy in passing.

But the pyramids were ornamented with hibiscus: Oh, flowery children.

My mind mutters deism, but why argue? A glimmer of something touched the soft hands, and then they massage each other. I can smell the aroma of east-coast coconuts. His god is not Her god, but their God is dysfunctional. And my god, once an abandoning god who trusted us, is the god of my interest in their conversation.

And they all see me and my haggard, wan cheeks: it’s aft.

I watch the gravel in the grooves of the floor shake like my dorm television reception. I can’t watch my late night insomniac television if it calls for codeine&alcohol. I want to sleep, not ache. Through that hump, under the seat of the girl with fat cheeks, there is a tire spinning. I watch the tire, aimlessly. I watch the moon.

But Cygnus has stopped Her swimming: I’ll trace her pond, forever.

My god sees a purpose in everything. Right now, I am purposeful. The purpose is not always realized then, maybe later, not now, maybe next time, but everything, in such a passing breeze, is understood – if even for a moment, or not a moment at all. I thank Freud for some things, and hate him for others. My dreams would break Freud’s heart.

And all my desires satisfied by a single ruin: where is my Trojan horse?

In that tree, growing from blasted rock that stares at both sides of this bus (in passing), there are rings of age: counting them is useless. It is rough on the outside. To my sight it seems weathered, and being so high, and on such a limb, I can understand its unlucky reverence. But look how leafy it is. Look how boisterous it wears its greens. Look how luscious that draping branch is, bent by the wind, but not burnt, and filled with moisture. Even that rock by the trees base is inflated - inflated with moisture, like a sponge. It is hard because my mind tells me it is, but I don’t believe. It is soaked, and slowly seeping. It is there, but it is the rock of the world, not the rock of my god.

But I feel the world blowing through me: I need a nosh.

The fat cheek girl wants to help people. She wants to bless people with her learned skills. That’s nice. Everyone commend her. I hear the dark man’s voice with fake admiration, calling her aspirations laudable. The soft handed girl smiles, delightfully? I don’t care about people. I only care about prolonging their entire downfall.

Thank god.

People should live, but how people live… is up to the people.

I used to feel the nausea from mankind too. Looking in the mirror I have no odium, but sometimes I see the wall behind me. Sometimes I see the emptiness inside me like it doesn’t exist. Like around my shape there is nothing, and I am the placeholder.

And there are essays in a dream pool: between elements of chaos.

I look sickly. I look pale. I look thin. My cheekbones are high and my skin tight, pulling inwards and against my hard jaw-line. This hair. What is this hair? There is something here. I feel it. My bare feet touch the firm carpet. Only my feet seem real. My breathing has ceased: it is unnoticeable.

But I hear them gambol in the streets: close my window, kindly.

I want to touch the man in the glass. I want to touch the reflection of a reflection. I want to float like this man. I want the warped world around him. I need entertainment. Why doesn’t my TV stop quivering?

And sometimes I wonder where all the good speed went: the crumbly bastards.

I slept one night. And the next day I saw beauty. All day. When I first saw through the world, when I first saw the existence of a rock behind a rock, when I first ignored the essence of a leaf and saw how it was the same, I felt sick. I felt childishly sick. I felt like grabbing my stomach. I wanted my mother to hold me.

But this simple rubbing has bested me: red hot heat.

I saw all the people of my world: waiting for the bus, playing cards in pubs, standing around hallways, counting money behind counters, feeding me, nodding to me, smiling at me, ignoring me – they get the point now, as I ignore them, counting my steps – and they all seem useless, worthless, empty, tired, morbid… I see the minutes of their lives counting down on their foreheads. His says AIDS.

And me quite incapable of counting tabs for coffee: cigarette mouth.

It all changed the day I slept. Not because of the sleep. Not because I felt refreshed. It had nothing to do with the sleep, even. It changed that day because I understood a purpose, or two. My god, my instantaneous god, blew dreams through my window that even Freud would not refute for analysis.

But I am not fluid or strong, rather a bowling alley bomb-shelter.

In that rock I saw its essential beauty. It is strong. It is smooth. It is glimmering. I see it clearly: through it, but clearly. I don’t need to touch it to know – to believe, to fool myself once more. In that leaf, that delicate leaf, I see how it shadows a tiny bird in the plethora. It is there because I am decisive, because it is purposeful.

And I bloviate in such a way to prove everything I want true, right.

My god has me deliberate essence: sometimes I find beauty. My god has me contemplate existence: sometimes I find purpose. My god changes for me. I feel ecstasy. I feel nausea. I won’t sleep tonight. Maybe I’ll hallucinate. But I won’t sleep.

But now my computer bombinates into the night: pause, buzz.