Today a young man...

a young man has a stone in his hands, he looks at the rushing cars, just lines that pass and doppler away. Fading, only the gray wind remains in his face, for a moment, it is a wave and in the air of the wave the quick forms that drop. Metallic swiftness short of sweetness; smells that hit, people in moving rooms, people lost. If it were a roller-coaster with colors and light he would be alone in the last seat trying to stretch his hands in the fall trying to touch the girls in the front, with an iron belt holding him back, weighing down on his groin. And the sky would wheel dazzlingly and all the forms would become one, a confused liquid mass of light and faces and trees, green and fluffy. And that would be the moment, in spite of the rush, where he would think of a motionless sea, of a stone detained in the sky. The moment where all would be clear like a glass of water, clear and cool, undisturbed by a strange fix of speed. Above, in the roll, in the zenith stasis, he could see a face in a speeding car, smiling, and he could follow the smile past streets and bridges, or the smile stayed or the motion of the cars matched its beat and cast an invisible line betwixt them, like twin rowboats.