They dig into you like rope, clicking you into place. Destinations are barricaded. How can one go fast and feel free when you have something digging into the side of your neck and is too hot when left onto the leather underneath that ball of orange? Thoughts are endless vines, but traffic lights and stop signs roadblock them from wrapping me up entirely without any room to gasp for air. No light or sign lead to you. But your favorite song always seems to be playing softly on the radio when another person passes by, clicked perfectly into place.
