No goal, no destination.
In the twilight the rush hour traffic slows to a crawl and the headlights become an endless string of pearls. Faceless people in cars without make or model, alone together. In my anonymous darkness the radio plays softly. Someone sings about an ice-cold winter -02, and I spend 30 minutes with only my thoughts and dreams for company.
Incommunicado.
This post was written for Nicky and Mike's 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing III. To see the other posts, please visit We Work For Cheese. *
