I tried to read, but six seven words in I slip into a daydream, and a warmth takes over.
I no longer feel the icy December draft hitting me from the bus doors opening and closing.
The passenger’s voices and waves of laughter dull into nothing but soft murmurs.
The music filters my daydreams.
I tried to read, only to go back to the daydreams.
When will I have the same epiphany as Haruki Murakami?