The car's windows are rolled down. The smell of hot asphalt still lingers from the neutral-grounded street the car just turned off. We meander down this crumbling street, whose borders seems to plateau off into the yards of mismatched houses and their concealed life-makers. I like it when pedestrian traffic and two queues of stationary cars prescribe a “life-in-slow-motion” consciousness, moving just fast enough to be able to notice the neighbors and families congregated on their elevated porches—after work, after mail-checking, after dog-walks and dogs' poops.
Cautionary of the road, yet contemplatively focused on my human insignificance, I am hopeful about what I plan on making my life as I snuggle into adulthood. If only I could always vicariously pull up this sentimental stance.
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