It’s around one in the morning(?).
We are by an unknown,
unknown gas station,
mosque.
I don’t know how long we will stop.
Engine is off.
People have gone off, too.

It is chilly, windy.
Body is paining after hours of distance and sitting, dazed between the realities of sleeping and not. I feel like old wood creaking as I get off.

The toilets are locked and closed and so I go around the wall enclosing the area to pee. Around the wall is just a plateau ending in a black horizom. You can’t even see where the sky begins. The wind hits me, stronger over the flat sand.

The road is lit and I see it reach into the obscurity. I don’t know which direction we came from or in which we are going.

I crouch on the edge. Just by the border of light with the wall behind me, facing the excessive black space.

The moon is a half moon. It looks wider now, like a smile, the Cheshire cat or a half cup of liquid filling up from the bottom.

We are on a tiny tiny island.
Around us could be anything; bottom of the sea, outer space, vacuum, dreamland, unconciousness.

All this an intermission, a parenthesis.
It doesn’t excist.

I will wake from it like from so many other things.

Now the engine is starting. People board. Six hours to go.
Muscles, ligaments, joints still aching, creaking, a little better after grace of night air.
I assure my self that it’s going to be OK.

It’s going to be OK.

…

(This story told in pictures.)