last week i started writing a novel.

and i've done it this week so far.

the bounce of headlights across large glass
sliding roll down blinds
on greyhound bus
rolling through 3 states
in just one night.
the seats are cold and the air conditioner
is on full blast
i jot away in the small notebook things to remember
story ideas
and small shreds that come to me.
my eyes water with all of the cold air
and the precious moments i get to climb off the bus
i inhale the cigarettes like amphetamines
the days are wonderful
out here
and i pity those tied down
in shitty relationships
with even shittier people
who are scared to live.
solitude can hurt at first
but lead
everywhere.
and now.
the novel.