Traffic

It seems to get worse. Endless trails of red lights, blinking on and off into the distance snaking their way along the dark faint form of the road. Stretching far, far off and moving so very slowly. Creeping. Edgeing, soporifically onwards.

Onwards and onwards. We must all go on, prisoners of our mode of transport. Slow, tired vehicles dreaming of a sudden burst of combustion to shatter the monotony and blast away forever into the night sky. Far, far away.

Dreaming, but awake. On and on, the lights wander. On, homewards. Sleepwards.