The numbers click forward without permission,
an endless rhythm of busy arithmetic,
whether you’re racing toward a skyline,
or parked at the corner of indecision.
Every second costs something, you notice.
Even stillness is marked by the meter’s glow,
quietly counting what you thought you held,
what you thought you could save for later.
The roads are littered with ambitions,
discarded maps, half-written itineraries.
Every turn feels like both a beginning
and the lingering echo of an ending.
The driver never stops to argue.
Their hands steady, their eyes unreadable,
as if they’ve learned it’s not their job
to question where the journey leads.
Sometimes the world outside your window
blurs like watercolor—chasing motion,
and sometimes it sharpens so vividly
it cracks your chest like a fresh truth.
But here you sit, paying in heartbeats,
deciding each time the light changes
whether you’ll keep searching for a destination,
or let the meter keep ticking—right here.