[they might call me strange but that doesn't make me a stranger]

During the day, the Bull Runner is a crowded, never-on-schedule-when-you-need-it-to-be-in-order-to-make-it-to-class-on-time bus. But at night, it somehow transforms [maybe it's me who transforms from stressed out to calming down?...]. The darkness is there, outside, a reminder of "time to wind down", and we (the bus riders) feel safe from dark monsters because the lights inside illuminate our courage and ignite our inhibitions, throwing our worlds up in dazzling flames. We're strangers but we don't feel like it; soon the older white gentleman, the young black man, the pretty Syrian-turned-American woman, and I are conversing like good friends, the weight of the economy and the housing crisis and budget cuts searing our minds, itching at the tips of our tongues. We look nothing alike but inside we are not so different. For inside each large or little, pale or dark, able or crippled body is a heart, beating to the chorus of batting eyelashes and downtrodden sighs and love songs that are evidence of this human race.

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