We share this ride each evening, on the way from work. The bus smells of sweat and weary cologne and melted makeup. Of coffee-break coffee and sometimes cigarettes. People sit and stare without seeing. Dozing off, tuning out, and spacing. Minding personal spaces, wishing that last empty seat beside them will remain that way. It never does. But there's always the iPod, or the iPhone, or the iBook. Keeping those iWalls up.
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