Sitting in a dingy, unnamed hostel, with a flickering fluorescent light overhead and a few stray candles, all almost waxed out. The music is upbeat with a down melody. The small group of travelers, all dirty, tired and silent, stare into their own bits of space, whether it be one of the ripped posters dangling from the walls, the sides of their coffee mugs filled with anything but coffee, or the dying light itself.
The mood is a strange mix of contentment and melancholy. All know that manana, tomorrow, will start too early and end too late. But it will not have a set destination, and there is no guarantee of any of them reaching anywhere at all.
They are hitchhikers.
They are there because they have no place better to be. And they'd rather be where they were than any place at all.
The mood is a strange mix of contentment and melancholy. All know that manana, tomorrow, will start too early and end too late. But it will not have a set destination, and there is no guarantee of any of them reaching anywhere at all.
They are hitchhikers.
They are there because they have no place better to be. And they'd rather be where they were than any place at all.