One summer evening, after I’d gotten off the bus on which I’d been a passenger for so many hours that the bus itself had traveled through two or three states while I’d been asleep (and several other  states while I’d been awake) before it had arrived in the city that for now would be my destination… and after I’d sat for a while on a bench that I’d found when I’d first entered the depot from the  area where the bus had stopped, outside, when it had let me out and had taken on two or three new  passengers (before starting back through the neighborhoods through which we’d come so that it  could return to the highway on which, I imagined, it would continue in the direction it had been  going), I decided, after looking around the terminal rather aimlessly, or absently, to see if anything  was happening that might amuse me, or that I might be able to involve myself in, and not seeing  anyone or anything remarkable…yes, I decided to sling my backpack over my shoulder and get up  and go outside and try to find a bar in which to spend a portion of the money that was still in my  wallet, which was easy to do, as the station was located in a depressed area of downtown, where bars  tend to be (or anyway where, in my experience, bars often are), though the first bar I went into was  just loud enough with people and with music that I turned around and went back out to the  sidewalk before anyone had a chance to notice me, and walked a little farther until I found another  bar that was on the same block but that was much quieter, and in which I was able to sit and have a  beer without putting myself in the vicinity of too much mindless noise, and in fact ended up getting  more inebriated than I’d intended to, so that after I’d paid my tab, a couple hours later, and had  wandered outside and was walking again with my backpack in the direction of the river, which the  bartender had mentioned to me, in conversation, was worth seeing, though he hadn’t suspected I was  going to go there right away, this very night, I somehow got lost among the cobblestone streets along  which stood, at the edge of the water, certain old piers that had been built years ago and that for a  long time had been in disuse, and ended up sitting on the planks at the terminus of one of them, with my legs dangling over the wooden beams, listening to the lap of the waves against the pylons,  and watching the moon come up in the sky (as well as in the reflection of the sky in the mirrored  surface below), all the while trying to decide where that night I would sleep, though finally I did not  decide so much as resign myself to remaining where I already was, because, when I thought about  that option, or possibility (remaining where I was), I realized it was not unrealistic, given the  circumstances of my life, which were somewhat new to me but not entirely unexpected, and  discovered also, more practically speaking, that if I arranged my backpack beneath my head and  neck, and closed my eyes, and did not move any of my limbs for a minute or two, I would feel as  though, lying there, I was doing something that came naturally to me, or anyway that might have  come naturally to me if I’d been the kind of person who would have no problem doing it, which,  apparently, I was, or anyway was on my way to becoming.