The sun arched slowly across the sky,

Illuminating the freeway speckled with cars passing by,

Every car sifts through a tollbooth,

Like sand filing through an hourglass.

Each passenger carrying their own subjective truth,

Breaking the day at last...

A familiar buzz rings around the head,

And the daily routine begins.

Meandering across night’s pleasures, strewn across the floor;

Inescapable nocturnal censures, hiding mistakes behind locked door.

The hands creep across twelve landmarks

Only to pass by them again. . . . .

-W.B. October (Tim Davies)