At seventy kilometers an hour the air screams as it passes, whistling in the helmet like a banshee. The rain drops stinging like bee stings, puncturing skin, it's wetness feels like pain, reminding you're alive.
No one to hears your complaint.
Only the slow traffic gives respite, however you're left pondering at the cause with spite. There are no victors to this quandary, only guilt at the sudden realization, you are the problem to your own peace.
Let that sink in.
Swerving. A fish swimming through traffic, the speed feels terrific, don't slip or life's tragic. Weaving a complex dance, a blur, that's like s trance.
Lose control and you're another toll.
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