5.20.00

She sits on the bus in blonde tresses and soft white sweater. She is known to wear calico on occasion. Her world is her own, which is fine; there is no need to be like anyone else. She sits on the bus in her blonde tresses looking out of her world with bluesky eyes not thinking anything about anyone or anything that she sees; she is not thinking. She sits in her blonde tresses recording and categorizing through blue-tinted lenses. She does not see herself but sees all from her vantage point and concludes, in her little world, that she is cleaner than those outside. Pure in her thought and action. Rightfully properly righteous. She sits on the bus in blonde tresses breathing the addictions of an unseen man. His impulses thread into her little world and plant themselves behind blue-stained windows. But purity is her protector. Pure in thought; pure in movement; un-tarnishable. After all, she moves through this world, she observes a range of humanity of which she is biologically a part, but from which her white-sweatered, clasped-hands morality elevates her. She sits on the bus in blonde tresses with her hands clasped on her lap looking out a window and not seeing, and unconsciously disgusted by the need reaching around from behind to stain her posture. (He breathes his life and hers and all the others; indeed he wears truth in an odoriferous swarm. He sees one direction only and not in nor out but just 'other'. He does not know, but merely responds to something imprisoned long ago. And in that singularity, his colorless eyes register a stimulating fall of ivory that evokes a vital desire. His is the singular world of reverse magic--animalism without a guide. That thick cluster of pure silken strands is in his hand now. He's reaching through the fold curling his fingers around the warmth long trapped inside and gently stroking.) She sits on the bus in blonde tresses practicing posture. When a finger presses gently into the shoulder of her white sweater she turns around as the pious citizen she believes she is and answers the words, "What's the time?" in disciplined civility. She sees brown but is hiding behind blue so thick she is unaware of the concomitant release of ivory lust from the palm of his hand onto her blonde tresses.

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