Deposited#1

They're standing out there, like dolls, faces blurred thrugh the half steamed-up windows of the bus. I can see them shuffling about as they board. More casualties of nightlife, trying to shield their frozen bodies from the weather with scraps of clothing.
As they board they look round, eyes flickering nervously as the excitement of the night begins to wane, blown to shreds by the buffeting wind, leaving room for the bleak realisation that another night is over, drinking songs ringing in their ears fade into the past as they slowly, solemnly file on taking their seats and huddling at the back, chattering.
The eyes of the drunk have swivelled round and are now fixated on them, a stream of inaudible speech is thrown from his mouth as he looks at them. His protests rebuffed by sneaky giggles and whispers.
Once more his gaze falls to me as his glazed, little eyes search for something to focus on to take his mind of whatever tortures are running around it, whatever has driven him to try and cloud it, to blot it out with drink.
It's funny when you look at people, people like him, and you wonder, how? How do they become like that? How does a man, same as any other, become a wreck? How do you lose all semblance of dignity and self-worth and become a sad drunk sat alone on a bench, swigging from cans out of a plastic bag and shouting at the world as it walks by you. Shouting in a futile attempt to fight back at circumstance and the tragedy your life has become.
A tragedy being played out on the stage of Englands streets, a sad monologue of self pity, as all around you the critics still sneer and and see you as trivial entertainment. No substance. Entertainment.
He has a sad face this man. Like a bloodhound. It hangs off him as though it would rather not be there, his eyes are the only thing betraying that he is still alive.
Once more I see my face in the glass, my eyes in shadow from the hat I have on, almost a spectral image, floating in front of me, watching me as I ride this bus, and observe the people thrown together as passengers by the unalterable fact that this is the last journey of the night. That image will be here again, it will be following me tomorrow as once more I sit here, once more I dissect the people around me, as they in turn dissect me.
Stepping off, it gives a tired hiss as it rolls away. I stand watching as it takes the brow of the hill, then walk on ,the drunk with the staring eyes growing smaller, and smaller and smaller.