Is there an end to which all things converge?
Celia rushes to the office, rushes to write, to create what’s needed. With masses of others, she strives to improve. The traffic surges forward through the slippery dim city streets. Look up and see buildings—and trains!— towering. Cars speed forward, trying to get ahead, cutting one another off, trying to reach there before dark. While we are stopped, we enjoy the ribbons of color.