It did get easier, once I started to imagine things were moving fast, too fast to fathom, too fast to see the stars but only feel them intrinsically on my skinlittle pinpricks, little bubbles of air to touch my cheeks or take my breath. Or, you know. The sort of rambling things I was letting myself think, so long as it kept me distracted and living.
The window was damp with me leaning against it, and in that position the teeth-rattling rumble of the ol' greyhound's engines was churning my stomach much the same way a headache had been thrashing behind my eyes for the past month. I rubbed my ragged sleeve into a patch of fogged glass and turned away from the dark outside and looked instead to the darkness within. A few lights pricked the arid gloomreading lamp, a cell phone or so. It was a heavy sort of stifled, in here, and it smelled like old cloth and travel and musty seats. Someone was coughing.
But cold. Why is every freaking bus always so cold? I hunkered down, tugging