Yellowish fog

I could spend my whole life trying to figure out where does the 143 goes to.Perhaps I 'll die without unveiling the mistery. If it has a definite destination , I don't know.Why does it drives around Rosario without accomplishing its main function , just sliding down the streets , almost grinning at the bastards waiting for buses that will never show up? Bastards who know their ticket home will not be there. That the 138 will not show up this time. Neither will the 142. Even Worse , it will be late. So late that the soccer match will already be over and the soup will be cold one more time. Bastards like me , that after long hours of wait and watching the parade of fuckings 143 over and over again will have the certainty that the 143 goes nowhere. Its drivers and even its passengers are people hired by the Government.Pretenders that only follow a schedule.A conspiracy with so a macabre purpose that no one would find out. But we did. It's true that I still don't have any proofs nor solid statements to prove it yet , but give me time.
Time goes by. Time goes by and he doesn't show up. Carlos is still not going down of any bus , and I'm here waiting for him. Eagerly , waiting for an answer , a proof. What could be better than proving it ourselves taking a 142?-He had said- Maybe he was right , but I should have been the one to take the chances. I look for him in the yellowish fog , but I can't find him, the crowd restrains me from it , indifferent to my desperation , indifferent to the danger the 143 represents. They climb up to their perdition , a dead-end. And they dont know it. I look to both sides of the street and check if someone notices my scant existence. As if waiting for someone to stop me from doing it. I closed my eyes. With my hand on the pocket , I play with the corders. I think I can reach the 0,90.