thomsen.

It seem like the time takes more than what it should have been. My mind seems to wonder, as if, dazed by the trees that have been passing by. Trees after trees. When does a time come when time does not seem fazed by the blurriness of trees? The nimblest of my fingertips touch the glass, deep in thought. As I pull each fingertip from the cold glass, you can faintly see outlines of my fingertips. First goes my thumb, then my index finger, then the rest fazed into the window of time, spurred by the speed of a bus moving quickly through the mountains. My thought quickly faded as a slight bump into my seat by the young girl who is slightly dazed from her sleep. My dark blue eyes, straight ahead on the road, yet, as the road curves road approaches, it remains to be unforeseen to what lies ahead.