–Franz Kafka LET’S PRETEND THE LANDSCAPE OUTSIDE THE BUS isn’t familiar. At least for a little while longer. Through the dusky tinted glass, I imagine the scenery is nothing more than a filmstrip of anonymous images. I pay no attention to the unevenly paved turnpike, the flower-choked median, the vista of rolling hills, the rows of religious billboards. The names of the approaching towns are just another collection of signs. I don’t want to know how fast I’m closing in on my final destination. As the scenery reels past the window, I focus on my reflection floating out over the yellow fields. I feel like a piece of thread being pulled forward by some unseen hand. The other passengers also seem lost in their own private dramas. Murmurs of distracted conversation. Half-remembered jokes and stunted anecdotes. People talking with their hands, carving incomprehensible patterns in the air. My seatmate switches on the radio and the sounds of a call-in show leak from his headphones. The shouted arguments are almost lulling.
