I press myself against the big windows of the bus, blinking wide eyed out at the streets of New York. There is a man on the corner. In his hand is a handkerchief, or tissue, I cannot tell. He coughs into it, or sneezes, or he is crying. He's sick, or very sad. Immediately, I hope he's just sick, and quickly feel guilty for the thought. Still, I cannot bring myself to hope that he's just sad, and cannot place the reason as to why.
Maybe sadness is a fate worse than death.
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