The silence between bus stops is where I think best

It’s 6:32, rain just stopped, and the bus hasn’t come yet. The city feels like it’s holding its breath—no sirens, no engines, just the slow drip from a gutter down the street. I used to hate these moments, thought they were wasted time. Now I know they’re not. They’re the only times I can hear myself think. Like when I was flying over the Baltic in '98, and the comms went dead for three minutes. Nothing but the hum of the engines and the weight of knowing you’re alone in the sky. That silence wasn’t empty—it was full of decisions. This one isn’t, either. Just… waiting.