Tick of the clock

The bus driver looked like a blend between Roy Scheider and Steve McQueen. Grey haired, with a creased face that seemed somehow out of place in the setting. As if belonging to a different era. Or none at all. With an ineffable air of dignity, nobility even. The bus itself was packed to the brim and smelled of fresh oranges. I didn't pay much attention to the road, as for the most part I had been engrossed in Gibson's "Zero History." There's something unsettling about his writing. Something permeating my consciousness and striking strange chords in my core, while at the same time escaping any clear definition. The closest approximation I can think of is that the dialog has a very video-clip like quality. Curt and brief yet all the while very evocative. And there are these nuggets of sentences buried in the text. One line masterpieces of description.
On arrival Poznan presented itself with an almost revolting, clinical clarity. I've grown unaccustomed to seeing the city by day (or the equivalent thereof). Maybe that's why the grayness, mud, sludge, the filth and detritus lining the sidewalks stung my eyes all the more. And Christmas? It came and it went, as every year. More importantly - we're past the winter solstice. Longer, brighter days ahead. And summer, more a mindset, or place, than season draws ever nearer.