Buzzcocks - Why Can't I Touch It?Though it’s still easy to forget that your cohabitants of the bus stop are, like you, waiting for the arrival of the bus and thus are caught themselves in contemplation of many different items, from the minute to the cardinal: the texture of the road surface; the passing cars; the gradient of the sky’s color; the day’s plans; their children, spouses, relatives, co-workers, lovers; the smells within the air; the overtones of the city; the sexual attractiveness and attainability of nearby people, animals, plants, protrusions and holes; what was on TV last night, what’s on TV tonight. Resist the temptation to empathize. Rigorously imagining the internal lives of others will only give you a fine dose of mainlined despair, and no one deserves that during the work week. Instead, posit the following: all thinking, of whatever type, must involve movement. Chemical movement, granular brain movement, electrical discharges arcing across lobes, pulsings and dimplings that would hypnotize even the most grizzled phrenologist. Isn’t it reasonable, or at least amusing, to think that this movement could be amplified to produce audible sounds? One could listen to the thoughts of others, though in a more ordinary sense than is usually meant. Think of the keening drones produced by packs of bored passengers, the fugues of sorrow and anticipation in the doctor’s waiting room, the fortississimo discord audible on line at the DMV. Melismatic quasars erupting from those trying to decide between chocolate and vanilla ice cream. Pizzicatto deliberations. Measure upon measure of true pensatos. Staff after staff after staff full of the fermatas of worry.[Buy Singles Going Steady]