The sun arched slowly across the sky,
Illuminating the freeway speckled with cars passing by,
Every car sifts through a tollbooth,
Like sand filing through an hourglass.
Each passenger carrying their own subjective truth,
Breaking the day at last...
A familiar buzz rings around the head,
And the daily routine begins.
Meandering across night’s pleasures, strewn across the floor;
Inescapable nocturnal censures, hiding mistakes behind locked door.
The hands creep across twelve landmarks
Only to pass by them again. . . . .
-W.B. October (Tim Davies)