Sight.

Black pants.
A green skirt.
Yellow shawl with jingling bells.
Unpolished shoes.
Worn out sneakers.
Expensive leather slippers.
Some mud-stained, some shiny clean.

That’s all he saw.
He observed closely through his squinted eyes as he inched forward at the red light.
The presence in the backseat rarely talked. And when that happened, he made it a point to cut that voice out.
His own voice is enough.
Loud, confused, observant.
Life behind the wheel had become a vicious whirlpool for him. But his life ran on wheels and it stopped when the wheels did.
This led to observation.
From time killing to creativity.
He framed stories, as he saw, through the windshield.

“Cut that phone. Cut that phone!”
“Alone at this time? Hmph.”
“Such expensive clothes? Whoa.”
“Beautiful. Ugh.”
His thoughts read.

*slip-slap, slip-slap, slip-slap*
The wipers went.
Blur, clean, blur, clean, blur, clean.
His thoughts went.
Weaving these tales, he forgot about life that sped by.

The presence in the backseat rarely talked.
But wrote.
Drunkenly, in his bound book. Illegible, but there.

“He sat behind the wheels…quiet…strange…silent *cut* sigh…lent.”

The driver looked around at the red light.
Heh, maybe…I should write a story, he thought.

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