I live beside the Harold Washington Park, over looking the lake. It's a nice enough apartment, I guess. But the view - the lake, the park; lakeshore drive and the multitudes of cars that pass by... to me, silent shapes that move, from left to right, right to left across to the edges of the window; then they abruptly vanish, like the many things which have entered and left my life.
The point of contact, this silent observation.
At once I want to empathize - in every car resides a story, a destination, a ... something. Something important perhaps? Trivial? Something human.
The city is a karmic thing. A beautiful karmic thing.