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His commute was his favourite part. Top front bus windows provided narratives. He would trip out about the smallest things and he would wait until it was time for him to get back on the bus. Expecting it to be empty or at least quiet, he would fantasise about being stretched out. The bus driver is already there. Everyone else is on the way. Bus holding both. It was cramped, rubbed up smells and coughs. Conversations in languages he didn’t like about things he didn’t want to hear about. Slumped, he would sigh and walk and stop by a café near his house. It was there that he got what he wanted from his commutes. He did this every day. The café controlled his disappointment. In debt from overpriced coffees and soups he was grateful for the compensating space and for his pre-mornings that were like madness in their belief and they were like fertile linings in their promise and they were like islands in their ignorance.