[Needless to say: these posts are still very behind; I am currently in Brooklyn.]

It's Sunday anyway, not past church hours by other towns' measures, but Market Street is a ghost town. I see little sign businesses have returned. A sheet of newspaper leaps in the wind raised by the bus, cresting by my window like a dolphin.

We pause by this billboard.

You gotta put your mask on right! the black bus driver calls out angrily to an Asian man who boards.

Muni celebrates Maya Angelou, educating me: Ms. Angelou broke the color barrier to become a streetcar conductor. I never knew.

One of the Tenderloin: "Happy Style Hunting,” encourages Nordstrom. Across Market, some unhoused people have settled against two non-chain eateries, one of which has gone out of business, the other of which strikes an optimistic note: Coming Soon!

A thin young black person, their back to my bus, stands with perfect poise, a studied pose, attempting to catch someone's eye or just affirming themself in the mirrored side of a building. They move with balletic grace. But their back foot, in a high-heeled sneaker, stutters in neurological pain.

A group of older Asian women, all masked and pushing carts full of plastic bags, surrounds a large white man in a flannel shirt. One yells at him, audible through the bus windows. I can't hear you, he says, pointing to his ear. I can't hear you.

There is a virtual reality gym across the street from Twitter.

A woman I know left Twitter after years of trying to get them to make the right decisions. On a drive through the Bay Area once, she spoke to me with disgust about her time there.

distance, trust, community

a bus ride from the Transbay Terminal to the…

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