I am losing this skin I am wearing this not-me thing that I thought was mine but it turned out to be somebody else's great overcoat, Gogol's overcoat which Dostoevsky wore which Kerouac and Ginsberg tore. I see mellow and melancholy yellow streetlamps fill the night suburbs of my moving world through a pane of glass on a rocking bus and realise what it is to be among houses with windows that open into dark alien rooms that open into nowhere. A loner lonely, alone, a lone loner more alone than loneliness all. One little drop of rain running down the window pane cheerily excitedly sporadically stopping to join with other free friends forming a coterie racing the other groups to the edges of eternity, falling around freely from the sky and from the bus, freedom is falling all around me.
P.S. I loved that phrase 'mellow and melancholy yellow streetlamps' because they are what they are.