There is a place called a bus stop. It is not a station, nor is it an airport or a harbor. While it is a place for going somewhere, you do not feel the presence of a grand journey there. It simply stands at the edge of the road. Sometimes there is a bench, sometimes a shelter. A timetable is posted. Someone stands a short distance away. Cars pass, bicycles pass, people walking dogs pass. The bus has not yet arrived.

When I saw the title of Siamese Cats’ "GIRL AT THE BUS STOP," it was this kind of small landscape that first came to mind. A girl at a bus stop. That is all. It is not a major incident, nor the start of a journey, nor a decisive moment of love. It lacks both the drama of a train platform and the tension of an airport departure gate. Yet, a physical presence exists there. A body not yet in motion. A body before going somewhere. A waiting body.

This state of "waiting" might be somewhat harder to see nowadays. Modern life quickly fills up waiting time. We check smartphones, look at notifications, reply to messages, listen to music, read the news, watch videos, and ask AI things. It is difficult for waiting time to remain simply as waiting time.

Yet, I feel the bus stops of the past held more blank space. You just wait. You look at the road. You watch to see if the bus is coming from over there. Time runs a little late. You stand there, not quite sure where you are trying to go. There are not as many people as at a station. The purpose is not as clear as at an airport. A bus stop is at the edge of town. Not the center, but not entirely outside of it either.

In residential areas, at the edge of shopping streets, in front of schools, near hospitals, halfway up slopes, at the entrances of housing complexes, on roads along the sea, under small shelters on rainy days—bus stops are attached to the everyday life of the town. Therefore, those at a bus stop feel less like travelers and more like residents. Children commuting to school, people going shopping, those heading to the hospital, others making their way to the station, individuals visiting someone's home, those returning, and those not yet wanting to go home. Each presence is placed in the same spot for just a little while.

Yet, there is no community there. They just happen to be waiting for the same bus. They do not talk, nor do they know each other's names. Still, they stand before the same timetable, waiting for the bus coming from the same direction. This sense of distance is pleasant—neither too close nor too far. It does not become a relationship, yet it is not entirely unrelated.

I feel a similar sense of distance in Siamese Cats' music. They do not shout loudly or over-narrate. They leave the slightly displaced emotions found in the daily life of cities and suburbs exactly as they are. It is the city music of a generation following Sunny Day Service and Quruli, carrying a bit more relaxed composure. But it is not merely light. Rather, by not turning thoughts into grand words, something remains.

The title "GIRL AT THE BUS STOP" is the same. We do not know who the girl is or where she is going. We do not know who she is waiting for, or if she is merely waiting for the bus. Yet, she is at the bus stop. That alone carries the sense that something might begin—or perhaps nothing will begin at all. The bus might simply arrive, she might board it, and go somewhere. That might be all. Yet I think that is why it is good: a physical presence that does not turn into a grand narrative, a time unrecorded by anyone, a person just waiting at the edge of town. There, music gently touches.

The bus stop is a place of movement, yet also a place of pause. It is not a body in motion walking, running, carried by a train, or traveling far by plane. It does not move yet, but it has already been decided that it will. I rather like this intermediate state.

There are such times in life. You have not departed yet, but you can no longer remain in the same place. You are waiting for something to arrive. Yet you do not know if it will truly take you somewhere. The presence at the bus stop stands at that boundary—before movement, before decisions, before goodbyes, before returning home, before something happens. Yet, nothing has happened yet.

This "nothing has happened yet" time seems to hold little value in today's society. It yields no results, is not broadcasted, is not consumed, and is not optimized. It is just waiting. Yet, there is a certain awareness that truly arises only during that time. You look at the sky. You hear the sound of cars. You look at your feet. You think it is a little cold. You find yourself with time on your hands. You think of someone, or you think of nothing. Such moments gently realign the self.

Music might be the same. Some songs reveal their meaning instantly, while others do not easily do so. There are songs you only understand after waiting a while, after many years have passed. You wait for the meaning of a song as you would wait for a bus. In that sense, a bus stop resembles music. It does not arrive immediately, but it might come someday—or it might not. Just when you think it has arrived, it might be heading to a different destination. Still, you stand there.

Siamese Cats' "GIRL AT THE BUS STOP" reminds us of the body in such a place. Not a station or an airport, but a bus stop. Not a grand journey, but a small movement. No grand narrative, but a small waiting. No dramatic departure, but a pause in daily life. There is a girl there. She does not move yet, but she is not completely still.

The waiting body at the bus stop is slightly open to the world. Where she is going is still unknown. Yet, from beyond the road, something is coming.

© SHIRO & Co.

First published: 2026-06-04