One of six people, including the driver, hurtling down the road in a bus made to carry almost fifty. The surroundings fly by while we all remain still and silent. All the others are near the front, and it feels so secluded back here that I believe I could do almost anything and no one would know.
There's nothing to do in this dark, empty forest of chairs. This is Charon's ferry.
A smiling driver greeted me by name and collected me from my home.
He brought me to this smiling driver, who greeted me by name and told me he'd been waiting for me. The first driver saw me inside and watched the door close.
There are brief moments when tiny, one-horse towns flash by our windows.
Each one is unnerving. Our journey is endless; this route has no terminus. I resent the fleeting taunts of a world to which I might return.
We've come to a place where empty, untopped columns flank our path. Surrounded by cars, we all race a storm.
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