The bus jostles into suburbia. The lights jump up and down the black road as the young driver pushes into quiet streets. The few passengers are quiet with their own thoughts. The young boy continues staring out the window into people’s houses. He believes life is but a progression of memories. He takes pictures with his eyes and stores them in his mind. He already has a picture of the crying boy and one of the old woman who is stroking his upturned hand with her thumb. He has one of his ma and of the lumberjack and his pretty girlfriend. He has one of the sleeping bus-driver and another of the awake one. Outside, he photographs the tall man in the window, hugging a small girl and younger woman to his chest. He takes a picture of the trees that will soon bloom under the moon and forget to snatch him away. He giggles as he takes a picture of his feet. …

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