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“There are roads. Upon those roads are cars. Some moving, in straight or gently-curved lines. Some idling, in long, narrow crowds. And inside those cars are people. People who are moving, or idling, with their cars. One with their vehicles, sitting quietly, peacefully in plush chairs, hands resting outward on a circle that dictates direction. From the side, and seen without the car, they would look almost fetal. So vulnerable, these people, nestled in their protective outer shells.” — Joseph Fink
There are roads. Upon those roads are cars. Some moving, in straight or gently-curved lines. Some idling, in long, narrow crowds. And inside those cars are people. People who are moving, or idling, with their cars. One with their vehicles, sitting quietly, peacefully in plush chairs, hands resting outward on a circle that dictates direction. From the side, and seen without the car, they would look almost fetal. So vulnerable, these people, nestled in their protective outer shells.