The Fiddler on the Bus
November 25th 2006 The air hung heavy with heat and humidity and the stagnant smell of clove ciggarettes. I was tempted to smoke too - anything just to kill time. The man up ahead was enacting a sort of repetitous rhythm: light, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale... His breath was the only means by which the air around us moved. Thin strands of smoke weaved and danced their way upwards until they slowed, merged and even
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