Rush Hour

Thirty years on, across our globe, my daily ritual. Alone, surrounded, marching silently forward, the vast weight of humanity moving back and forth, in an awkward dance, street theater for the masses. A piano and a flute, emoting to this interlude, the analog broadcast, my chosen soundtrack, together with the metronomic pulse of my worn out wipers, as they collaborate with the falling snow. Half asleep, I contemplate the sweetness of this etude, on the radio. Two instruments, a man and his car, a piano and a flute building a theme and gathering speed, captivate me as I am drawn in, the audience applauding in gratitude. In this exalted state of grace, the light changed a little too fast, and I was caught by the flash that soon will be a demand for cash.