I take the bus of Line "10" in Thessaloniki, from the starting point of Charilaou to the Terminus, to the Railway Station, and I write down everything I remember, invent and imagine from each stop. Nineteen stops. By writing, I understand that the mind is an open prisoner-of-war camp. Or, a sawmill full of amputated, incomplete memories, inventions, fantasies and experiences that constantly change meaning, get lost, reappear, intersect and escape again.

I know, that is to say, that hares do not flock together, but here they are chanted together. Then, every bus that starts from a specific starting point, takes an unvarying route and goes towards a fixed Terminus, never actually following the same itinerary - especially for the same passenger, who looks outside and inside with their forehead stuck to the window. Every passenger, every time, is a different bus.