thoughts while on break in the smoking booth

To be in one of those busses. On the way. Travelling, that blissful state of in-between, safe from this, tending to the herds of scared runners. To be on a bus on a gray spray-raining september thursday.
(thirst-day). Safe and calm, with books and notebooks, not hungry, not tired, not thirsty and not in need to go the toilet.
With tender musing, memories nicely vague and distant.