One quarter of an hour to nine in the Morning and it's just me and a bus replete with people. Nineteen carriers of virion and bacilli long forgotten by spoiled hermitic immune system. Inapt white blood cells dust off long dormant antibodies that call me asshole for interruption of respite despite their comparatively merciful job in relation to scent receptors. My olfactory is union and works hard. No odor, bodily or otherwise, goes unnoticed. That is to say this thing fucking reeks. Zoological observations of Homosapiens on the many recent adventures in public transportation further misanthropic desires for the extinction thereof excluding yours falsely and several thousand mating partners of the most pleasing genetics and loosest morals. That is to say me and some trim. A little closer to nine in the morning. Supervillainous ideologies take a backseat to the safe return of keys to a too small kiosk in the local center of commerce I once called job. Nine minutes, sixty-three seconds to nine in the morning. No money, no problems.