old thoughts.

"I step out of the building I've been hiding in for the past 7 hours and light up a cigarette. As I draw back, the unsavoury taste of smoke fills my lungs killing me more and more each time. It's such a foul habit, but I can't see myself stopping anytime soon. These days, it feels as though Peter Stuyvesant is my only friend, and he's trying to kill me. I walk to the bus stop, ignoring everyone around me. I almost miss my bus but I don't care, I just want to finish my cigarette. $2.90 to the city. It's always the same. Hop on, smile politely to the driver, find somewhere to call my own for 15 minutes, get off. Today is good, the bus isn't overly crowded and I get a seat to myself. This makes me happy. I get to the city to find that I'm early for once, so I light up again and walk to the Bathurst Street entry of Town Hall Station. The streets are crowded with people, cars, busses. It's Friday, so there are a few odd people lurking around Town Hall. I wonder what they do with themselves? I start to ask myself questions about them..."