If I lived here, I’d be home by now. I take in the commuters disembarking from their trains at the rusted-out metro station in the middle of the expressway. It’s Rush Hour, I have time. I have no idea how they got there. Just physically.
They seem stranded on an island of motion in the middle of a river of near-still autos.
Your third eye provides visual information to the near side of the pineal gland of a world in suspended motion. From this perspective, thoughts flicker in and out of being on an incorporeal film at an ever-increasing frame rate. Tune
