The doors of Trambusa have slipped open to the people who lower the landscape. On the sidewalk we could call the pier, we have organized ourselves into two lines: those that want to go up and those that go down. In the end, when my turn has come, I have been brought forward by a 26-year-old woman to make sure, perhaps, that I touch a seat. When he's folded me, I've realized his arid motion, his hardened traits, the firmness of his lips. And he's found a seat, not me. When we go through the stops, to what I think is his air satisfied, I have almost answered him with contempt, on his upper part, in the midst of the impulses of heat and bus, again biting the black glasses.

After four stops, I've realized that they cry, no scrubbing, the laughter of water comes out of their eyes without having to dress, without moving another facial muscle. Occasionally, drain the taps with a piece of paper that holds it in the palm. In the head of a moment, impregnated with picotes, I have seen overflowing with a full hand toring mateles.

At first, although I thought I could cry for my unequivocal and very abusive attitude, I am clear that it has not now been such a disappointment. And I believe in that or not, I haven't known what to do.

People like me are not ashamed to address strangers, for example, we're not afraid to cross cops, either when security officials look at us, or when the driver's team goes up on the bus. When I'm wrong or excited, I'm not ashamed to answer. It's true that my answers, those of the tupusts, sometimes look like word shoots, they're not always right, they're not inns, they're bad. And with putxa, I can be grieved, so proud, so mute, lost and so innocent.

Moquínes can't offer him, because I don't have him, and I don't know how I would, besides, to make his grief so visible, that invisible sadness that prevents him. The one next to me probably had already been warned before me, or maybe not yet, the nose is glued to the smartphone, without lifting your fingers. The same, aware of the situation, is certainly reading raising the newspaper as high as possible and abnormally, keeping it at the back of the paper fence.

I've mechanically read the headlines and letterheads of the newspaper that got up: don't obey the reform of the retas; if the left is KO; AD: New internal enemy of France; BRAV-M: who they are and for what; 13% from 18 to 60 years in depression. I have stopped at this, because perhaps we should not look much further in silence and in the cause of crying the prey.

Buses and public transport, in general, can provide over the years of sociological research, something that has not been in doubt for a long time, since days do not pass without counting. Today, everyone has been with their personal rodele, whether it's glasses, newspapers, phones or mokanes. We could help each other, with a few words, with a gesture, wanting to heal. Instead, after lowering all the others, I have stayed until the last stop, like almost penance.

To celebrate the return to these columns and express the joy that it brings me, could you tell some more joyful facts? That is true. But the events of the past winter and spring have not caused me to decrease the oxytocin rate, no. And of course, joyful things don't inspire me the same thing.