You step into the street and everything on the earth is still. Except for the sun. It hovers; its liquid, orange sphere pulsates behind hills and trees, rooftops, street signs, water towers. Clouds soak up the color; translucent, they bleed blue, and swallow scarlet. Under your feet are the crisp leaves of dying summer. They dance as you walk and sweep down into the gutters never to be seen again. Like feathers, like breaths. But you move on. A light flickers inside someone's house and a shadow fills the window. The curtain parts. It's Old Joe Myers, up for a drink. But there ain't no whiskey and it's Sunday. No liquor sold on Sundays. Sorry Joe. Now Gloria Hunt opens her door and bends down to grab the newspaper. Her robe slips a little as she stretches across the stoop. Cream skin flashes and shifts. She can't seem to collect that paper. She stumbles and falls forward, out into the cold. Squatting now, she looks up. "Oh hi! You're up early today! Where ya headed?" You wave and dodge past where an old Ford can act as a shield. You can't tell her where you're going, because she wouldn't understand. If only it was someplace called home, but there is no place called home. And there are no other towns, or streets, or sunrises, or sunsets. You're going to a different time and it's coming right now. You have your ticket, and the bus has pulled up beside you. A hundred faces peer out: a general from the Civil War, a runner from a slave camp, a dancer from the Bolshovy with swan feathers in her hair. None of you know where you are going, but you must go. You step on board and the engine churns. The doors close and the bus drives silently away.