descriptive prose

I meander up to the bus stop, immersered in the bitter-sweet vibrations of cat power. I look around slowly at the fellow students also waiting fort the bus, my head swinging back and forth in deliberate slow movements. This is a re-run, the one where I sit on the wall and read Sartre. I Pull myself up onto the wall and start to read, perched, crosslegged. I look up for some reason and see the coach rounding the roudabout, just coming into sight. I lower and drop to the pavement below.

As I walk up the aisle looking for my seat, the right seat for this trip, I sing Dead Kennedys to myself in low, muttered tones. A girl laughs.