I stole the bus. The number on top was giant, but I could not get comfortable with why it had that incredibly simple number, double-zero-three.
I would get lost in a police helicopter.
That boy in the horrid, knit, rainbow hat couldn’t carry himself in a simple walking process. He stumbled all the way down a long city block. I thought about heroin.
Nobody missed the stolen bus. I wanted to drive it into the big river, but I drove North instead at which point, the riders started to look questioningly at me. The lady in the smooth, maroon dress with black stockings and incredibly classy shoes seemed to be ready to have an emotional breakdown.
I stole a baby, and I needed to focus on the next right step. I was not entirely comfortable with the impulsive idea of stealing the bus.
stillfugue 