I sit on top of my lug against the ochre wall of the greyhound station of Sarasota. There's smell of flowers floating in the hot humid air, a familiar climate that reminds me of somalia. There's probably also a scent of the gulf in it, which I understand must be somewhere not too far from here, going in some direction.
I just finished trying again to get through to Max, got no answer, left a message. I hope he will hear the message and come soon. I'm through with riding anything to anywhere right now.
I think back at the last 35 crazy hours spent aboard of greyhound buses, into inhospitable greyhound stations, probably not unlikely a survivor thinks of his raft. Almost everything that could happen happened, and I am tired, stinking, worn out. I think back at it and wonder, did I really did that? Was I really there?
What I mean, was I really so friggin' stupid to come all the way down here from New York on a bus?
It doesn't matter now. All is fine. I relax. Hot weather works instantly. The sun either burns or spares, from behind and between the immense tropical clouds quickly moving and morphing up in the sky, making and unmaking the shadows of the trees against the gray ground of the greyhound lot, while the cars run down the road unceasingly (it's washington road).
Birds and a squirrel yell from the long branches of trees I never saw, with red, yellow flowers, I wish i knew the names, but I'm just another city boy.
It doesn't matter. Everything's gonna be fine. Max will finally arrive and take me away. The world around will unfold and provide its meanings, and if it won't, it doesn't matter anyway. Hot weather works good.