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  • I'm standing in the light rain and watching the city.

    Traffic has an odd way of working. Herds of cars roar down the streets with thunderous booms and irritated honks, all speeding away to whatever slice of life has taken them up at this particular moment. It is incredible to see this never ending migration swirl around the city, as if a stationary storm of productivity has taken anchor over our home, demanding ever greater results at breakneck speeds. These cars race each other in between lights, tightly packed and in a hurry. Yet behind them, perhaps unknown to the drivers ahead, rests an open area fully devoid of traffic, following behind silently. The herd does not roam here anymore.

    Our pace has brought this sense that somehow we are closer, tighter, truly connected to each other in this beautiful orchestra, a record spinning around and around again, playing recorded tunes that we once sang alone. What cost do we submit ourselves to in order to look closer? Have we settled for an image that we know is not real?

    Where is the artist now?

    I, too, want to be free from the restrictions and packs that we are subtly placed into.
    I, too, wish to be a bike behind and in front of the herd.
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