Speed. Space. Silence.

Space.

There's so much of it and so little of it.

Vast roads. Red lights. Vacant stares. Radio blasting. And people, rushing to go places they don't want to be in. Rushing, always. Staying still, never. Why are they rushing? To go sit in a cubicle where the clanking of keyboards drowns out their thoughts? To make it to the end of the day quicker, when they'll be back in bed dreaming of a calmer tomorrow? Every day spent in haste; all of life spent in haste. Is everything a task to them? Or are tasks everything?

Tall building. Tight spaces. Cold buttons. And strangers making small talk. About the weather, work and life. Work and life, they say it is the same. Why do they minimize their life so much that it fits in this conversation or this elevator? Why is it confined to this tiny building? Isn't life bigger than this? Something that can not be fit into a briefcase? This is surely not what they meant by making a living...or is it?

Dim lights. Chirping crickets. Cold breeze. A strange feeling that makes the room grow colder, bigger, stranger. A familiar unfamiliarity hangs in the air. You're here but you're not. You visit every night, but tonight everything seems out of place, like it doesn't belong. Or is it you who doesn't?

Space. Do you occupy it or does it consume you?

~ progression of a day