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.
I've been here for hours—long enough to have a sound sleep, wake, and return to myself.
The others all chose the small companionship of physical proximity. None wanted to chance four hours of closeness with an already-sleeping body that might never wake.
I love it here. No one else seems inclined to brave the dark and the stares of all these empty chairs, not even to use the bathroom just over my shoulder. This space is inviolate.
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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