In the car I am doing the flipside of a road rage: the untrammelled voluminous song. Sorry, pedestrians, for the flinch the noise caused: but not for the noise. What tune it held or dropped is irrelevant. The lack of trammel is the crux.
In a sky of black glass the half-moon shears off rays, squint-bright. Stars are set, expertly: some sort of algorithm one suspects.
No matter what I write about, I write about the transcendence of fear. Not the conquering of fear itself, only the debilitation of it. I write appreciation, the most useful and genuine form of love. I write how to measure the weight of your life. The more I write like this the more I think it, feel it, live it. I look for it. One who looks stands back from the crowd. If we all look there should be no crowd: only company.
And after the journey of song and thoughts, the old red car reverses up the driveway.
For further entertainment there is wine to drink, and watching a bellied moon get stuck in a tree.