Hum drum dumb numb.

There's something about those city buses that crawl through the park in the morning, something slow and depressing. Like an old dog lumbering along, trying to keep up with his owner. This morning on my drive to work it hits me particularly hard. Umbrellas open up to dirty skies, blotting out blueless days. Those blurry faces staring vacantly out sleet-streaked windows, following the same yellow lines of the same filthy streets for weeks upon end.

Finally, I break from the park and head up Lakeshore Drive, pausing at the Chicago Ave. stoplight where a man in french cuffs leers at me from inside his immaculate BMW. His glossy black cuff links stare back at me like the eyes on a snake.

Green light. I hit the gas. Hard. Swerving in and around idling cars, I accelerate, the heaving and whurring of my car engine drowning out the traffic report whining out of my radio. Faster and faster until I'm going 85 mph, trading the sad, snow-soaked skyline of the city behind me for the blank, outstretched gray horizon ahead.

At about Harlem Ave. it strikes me that I'm still going 80 mph and for what? I'm speeding faster and faster toward my life in a box. A box with knockdownable walls and numbered plaques. Every day it records my permanence with erasable pen.

When I arrive at work and get out of my car, I slam the door shut and gaze into the driver's side window. The face I see I do not recognize.