Highways usually clogged with traffic, mine alone at 2:30a.

A persistent but mild exact 12 MPH over the speed limit. My beloved city as quiet as my brain is forced to be at such speeds. For to not be perfect in every moment would be to invite death. Every moment different but no less perfect, just as the sky when we bother to look up. Breathing, weight, trottle are all that matter, passing thoughts as trivial as some taxi I passed by miles back, lights on, someone reading a novel in the back. Body and mind independently of no concern at all, but that perfect liminal point where they are the same thing all that matters.