The page is blank. I start to fill it, letting my pen drift over white space, needing to cover it.
The drunk man on the bus is staring at me. He burps and peers closer; I avoid his gaze. He gets off at the next stop and I am relieved. It's quiet now, we've passed restaurants and bars, and the revellers have left. These people are going home.
The bus stops and I still have a while to travel. My feet are cold. I am tired but alert. I want to slip into warm slippers and a dressing gown, cradle a steaming mug of something comforting. Spicy and sweet. I want to curl up with a book in a room that dances in the lively flames of a fireplace.
Instead, I look around and see I am one of three on a cold and lonely bus. The traffic lights are tediously long. My toes are icicles now, and my shoulder is sore. There are things wafting around my mind that I must remember. I should write them down but I don't. I can't or won't.
The bus driver gets back on the bus. He left to buy a coffee, I hadn't even noticed. It wasn't the traffic light that had been taking so long, it was him.
Now I am weary. My writing is strange and unfamiliar, if I think hard, I do recognise the untidy scrawl - but is it mine?
Empty pages give way to spidery black ones.