I stepped forward and I got on the late bus to the villages at midnight. The sky was red and black, lightning stroke the tumultuous clouds. I could not see a thing. My bags disappeared. The mountains surrounded and engulfed my ride. The wind blew, the peasants sang a humming chorus. My walkman gave in to the pressure, the air became thick and 1000-pound heavy. The colors became scared away. The bus climbed hills, empty villages and ominous pallisades at the bottom of which rested old crashed bmw's. My elbows turned white. I could not see a thing. My eyes turned all red, my hair turned black, I hung onto the back of the seat in front of me as if my life depended on it. And it did. A roar shook the valley and shattered the bus windows. The hurricane took my hat and swept away the driver of the bus. An old lady flew by, followed by her goat. The river by the road dried out and the skeletons of '90's heroes sat up from the river bottom and poured champagne to celebrate history in the tumult. A riot came over trees, asphalt, bushes and road signs as a stormy night took permanent hold. A thousand voices screamed for justice from miniature caves and forgotten nooks we flashed by. The twists and falling trees took their toll on the bus and the top flew off. I was just me in this old bus, speeding through the hurricane of the stormy mountain roads, awash in a sea of disaster, colored by darkeness, and driven by the unquestionalbe sinister nature of imminence. I clutched the seat even tighter, then let go and found myself flying up and away, passing mounts and plateaus to land back in a suburban bar, quiet as the sound of 'everyday'. The barman came round, I asked him for 'double talisker on the rocks' and my mind died happily ever after.

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