The living representation of the mental state
obtained by all the passengers inside the taxi-bus №408 that makes a trip mid-afternoon (around 3:12–3:27 p.m.) on May, 25th of 2024Lord, this man is trembling like a meat jelly. Not containing even an inch of fat of his own.
In this shabby smelly hell of a vehicle, heading to godforsaken Borshchahivka through the unexpected blood-boiling May heat (I assume that all the sentient creatures inside used to consume at least three newborns a day in past lives), this sir epitomises every single passenger’s spiritual state.
He is disgusted. He is appalled, enraged and already medium-well.
Barely visible, colourless lips have been staying curved downwards ever since he entered the salon. The prominent nasolabial folds remind of cuts on his papyrus-ish skin. Likewise, do a few wrinkles on the forehead, suspiciously resembling an engraving–one of a baobab tree top.
The man is teensy even in the scale of this moving tin can, at best hitting 1.5 metres. His frailty and dryness hint that someday in the past, in a dark alley, he might have encountered Edward Cullen who’d given up being vegan.
His shoulders are slumped down under the invisible burden of existence, and teeth (or their remnants if such exist) are most likely greeted together. The left arm is dangling synchronously with a keychain on a rearview mirror. The right arm’s bent at an awkward angle, and its hand is gripping the handrail as if the man’s holding on to his dear life. Judging by his age (seventy-eight? eighty-seven? ninety-five years?) and the Shrek-like taxi-bus driver’s skills, he might actually be.
The bus stops. New passengers (sinners) enter; no-one comes to the back where the meat-jelly sir and I are having the time of our lives. He reacts neither to the people, nor to coming into movement again. Maybe, he’s just chilling out there in his sort of trance: his eyes are void of any emotions, just staring ahead.
The taxi - bus reaches an area where those high blocks of flats don’t block out the sun. The rays are falling differently now, and… whoa. Those eyes are shining from the inside. A lonely bead of sweat on his round face is doing something similar: it’s glistening. And the same goes for his mousy-grey haircut, the most basic one existing for men.
The taxi - bus is going ahead and ahead, and the man’s, probably, ascending to the other universes. He definitely does yoga, meditates and does those fancy cleansing of energy daily.
After all, not only his expressions are screaming of that. His outfit… it’s…
His shoulders may be equally slumped down due to the burden of being a fashion icon. The torso is enveloped by an adorable loose T-shirt with a portrayal of a Dog Patron. The beige shorts reaching mid-thigh reveal pointy knees. The baby-blue knee socks wrap tightly around his legs. And as the cherry sits on a top of a cake, crocodile skin loafers sit on his legs.
Not a man, not a mere retired yoga instructor or someone's spiritual guide, a legend.
The sudden road turn tries to turn us into the Bloody Mary cocktail (the alcohol part supplied by the driver), so the knuckles on the right hand get into the chameleon mode and go from sandy-yellow to tomato-red to ivory-white.
We’re almost at the next stop when the man gets paler–white as a sheet. He’s moving closer to the doors, seemingly, ready to leap out of the taxi-bus.
Oh no. Enough spying for today.
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