Milan Kundera took the bus from Prague. It was a long way, but he knew he wanted to come back.
There was something about the greyhound station in Chicago that called him back, reminded him of his childhood, his mother standing close to him as he waited for the light to change so that they could cross the street.
All those long days and nights on the bus from Prague, he stared out the window, dreamed about a greyhound running through the light, past the darkness.
There was one day when he almost asked the bus driver to stop the bus so that he could get off the bus and breathe in the light. He knew breathing was good for him and that he needed to do it, but he finally decided not to ask the driver to stop the bus.
It was better to keep going.
Maybe once he got to Chicago he would see his mother still standing on the corner there by the greyhound station, waiting for him to take her hand so they could cross when the light changed.