Cigarette smoke fringes Will’s breath. Disperses bony fingers, clutching the tail end of a passing breeze. The air is still muggy from the rain. Traffic is at a standstill. And it’s as if the world’s orbit grinds to a deafening halt. And Will can feel the visceral ebb and flow of being alive. It’s strangely unnerving. Why should he feel exposed by the consciousness of each primordial element piecing him together? But it passes. The light flicks green before he can accept this existing fragility. Impatient blares shatter the whispers of nirvana, urging everyone forward in the snail race home.