It’s five-thirty in the morning. The rooks scream but I cannot see them, their sounds are vaccinations in the mist. The terraces are unlit but at one window I see a face. A young girl stares out, arms a triangle under her chin. She watches as the bus arrives and I climb aboard. The driver dreams about giant slugs, saving his dog by throwing handfuls of salt. Slime grizzles from the bus as I take my seat and sweep my arm through condensation. The girl is still there, but she does not look at me, she is nose to nose with her rabbit, explaining how baby dreams are made.
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