Rush Hour

The morning has no narrative to be deciphered. The grey sky is simply grey and the sounds reaching the ear carry no meaning, just the noise of machines and motor cars. Even nature gives no eloquent speech but allows each utterance to fight for space or privilege with cries and discordant howls. Clumps of people spill from carriages and clog bus stops with minds wired to worlds squeezed through the window of a tiny screen. The morning tightens and presses something deeper into itself, becoming smaller, more difficult to reach. Mouthfuls of panic hurry past, unnoticed, before being swallowed by automatic doors.