On a bus from Bolton to Piccadilly, Chris had a moment to think. It wasn't a long moment, rather a pause between two songs on his mp3 player. He did have a talent for allowing thoughts to hit him, almost as quick as a feeling could. Entertaining the thought by deciding against the dancy tune that had just come on, Chris browsed instead for an old a-Ha favourite. By hitting somewhat deeper, as "Early morning, eight o'clock precise.." tingled though his earpieces, the thought entertained him in return. Chris folded up his newspaper on the empty seat beside him, rollicked about as the bus half-heartedly turned a corner, and gazed out the foggy window. His stop was near now, and the thought had gone.