There used to be a crazy ole bearded grunt who'd sit at the bus stop takin deep drags off his hand-rolled tobacco, picked from the dry dust fields of little Idaho. He'd stay there as if he found complete and total peace- rain, wind, hail, or snow couldn't cause him discomfort, secure in his little piece of Eden. I loved to talk with him- actually, I preferred listening. He would tell me how he traveled in a mental space rocket and conducted trade on a planet of highly evolved reptilian raptors. He offered to take me there for the bargain price of six hundred greenbacks up front and four after taking me home. I know what you're thinking; its a scam, an imaginative one. But I swear folks, he was serious insisting he didn't think in words but in stars and space dust which was how he bent time and space with his lowly grey matter. A common drunk seemed sober compared to how this ole mans gears turned without any medication legal or otherwise- he only indulged in tar stained, toothpick sized Idaho cigarettes. Now there remains just the smooth outline of where he once sat I've come to conclude that he sat there waiting for his mental rocket and somehow his ride finally arrived; he's probably bargaining prices with raptors on his favorite reptilian planet. I couldn't go with him not even if I wanted to; we were simple men of opposing dimensions.