Cars travel by. Condensation trickling down their windows. It’s old how the story goes. Fogged windows. Lead to stories left untold.

Vacant or at full capacity, the car leaves a journey with every left turn it writes, every right blinker that burns, to its first and last U-ey it turned. Leaving cursive in the gravel imprint.

Travel to places so far away, that space is no longer a verb you have to look for but a noun you have no choice but to imagine eternity in. Hop in. Sit in, the world we live in. Make sure you have a window seat. 

Because your billboard of opportunity can come and go like bridges overhead to a highway. Time, place, and life, chase, it goes hand in hand. Like the hands of time that billboard will not wait to be appreciated. Another driver will soon find themselves looking to skies rather than the road and opportunity sees to be seen. And so it will.