I like riding the bus late at night. They say you can only find life, depravity, diversity in New York. I say they've never ridden the last bus through Little India before.

The characters on this bus were not written about in books. Looking at their faces, you know they've their fair share of stories. There's always one in particular - more nervous, more on the brink of something, more - a character. In his story we are just observers, often less smart than he, less aware - we, of the faceless.

Tonight I understand wholly what it means to be faceless. What it means to not be a character, to not have a story worth writing about or be listened to.

I regret the folly of not having developed my plot with being read in mind. But that has always been my selling point, no? To not sell. I have always known this was the price of having convictions. Persecution, since we're being literal. How do you blame the jury for a verdict they've based on a poorly presented case? Or an absence of one.

If I were any less aware, I'd find humour in this irony. If I had any sense of wanderlust left, even for the inane, I'd be fine.

The problem with convictions is often, the ones against yourself.
Now how do you undo a verdict that you never got the writ for?