The hustle of strangers in the grand concourse down below offers up no discernible signal, no clear or naked pattern.
Every step in this direction is seemingly double countered by two steps in that one. Yet movement forward somehow is always a given, always a constant. At least for that one lone fellow we briefly pursue with our locked and loaded eyes before he hastily dissolves back into an acquisitive crowd eagerly awaiting his return.
Like some high school science project fiddling with gasses and beakers and quickly timed measurements, the routes of these, our weary travelers, are both wildly speculative and boringly predestined.
It only matters from where they are first measured.
For just a moment, we catch a glimpse as if from heaven itself. And a thought or two intrudes about how all this might look from there.
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