i was on the bus last night, making the pilgramige from the place of work to the place where i lay my head. the cold nights combined with the heaving mass inside the bus frequently causes the windows to condensate. as i sat near the back of the top floor, something which is traditionally the spot for bad types, but to where the forces that control me always lead me, i stared in a haze at the two front windows. the condensation formed and as it did it left the greasy finger markings of the bus' previous travellers. usually this would spell out someones name, or a 'fuck the ruggy polis' type message, but last night it said 'puerco gordo' i have only visited spain in a dream, but for some reason i am more than aware that this means 'Gordon is a pig'
strange that on a bus travelling through the outer reaches of the scruffy suburbs of glasgow that this should appear scrawled in finger cheese across a bus window.
the world is getting smaller. the world is a box. one that previously contained shoes. probably trainers.
i shall ponder this further on todays adventure to the book shop
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