4pm and on and rolling. Afternoons in suburbia. Passing concrete plains and rough muddy fields, parking lots the size of football fields in front of shopping malls of similar dimensions, and finally a forest of road signs next to outbound highways. Watching a cargo airplane cross sight, way up, red, yellow, and the skyline shrinking, disappearing in a dusty rear view mirror. Mode switching. Even though not yet being completely settled with things.
4pm and on. The sound of motorcycles, distant hammers and a dishwasher. Headphones aren't in for cancelling a lot of that environment today. On the sidewalk, next doors janitor is patiently explaining to some younger tenants how to correctly handle different kinds of garbage and trash and one seriously wonders whether some explanations are needed at all. Pondering baselines, communication and mutual respect. Thin ice, most of the time, not just on days as bright and warm as this.
4pm and on. Concrete, tar and yellow flowers in between. Everything merged into a vague colour gradient of countryside passing by. Stories of cities and motion, of inner sanctuaries and dusty outskirts and everything in between. Still trying to grasp the right soundtrack to this.
Morning. Moving with the clouds again. Always between dawn and dusk. // 📷 366skies
11am. Withdrawing from the bustling city. On the roof once again, with all the different means of transportation passing by in plain sight. Could stay a bit longer. Yet, too: Ready to go, somehow.
4pm, almost. Force-closed unfinished work by accidentially rebooting the local machine. Now, trying to pick some of the pieces and see how to at least roughly fit them together to remember vague structures. Luke-warm coffee, an empty bottle of water, and the usual indecisions with the sounds of afternoon slowly sneaking into the hallway.
4pm and on. Early off, slow motion, like the heavy trains heading south. Own safety zones reducing again and again, grumpy people in close vicinity. Too, a huge old cabrio standing on flat tires, cyclists making their way around shouting and cursing, sunlight feeling weak and cold. Afternoons, on a long day.
10am, moving on. Leaving behind days outside the ordinary, days outside the usual clock speed. Carrying on conversations about tolerance, communicating and flawed individualism virtually everywhere. No conclusions, just synchronisation. And maybe some sort of self-encouragement. (More own thinking than regurgitation. More listening than explaining. Maybe more practising than preaching, no matter how small the effect.)