Do you sit at a cubical wanting the elevator to come and take you down to the street.
Like a robot programed to match boxes to numbers on a sheet.
If so, I do understand and watch the belts and machines like a continuous path of rubber.
When I cock my head to the side I see a Mobius strip running around a building never stopping.
If I put my bike on the path I would dash in one place at my station, dodging the boxes and hopping.
That would be my last day, and oh how I would like that, to ride out the door.
Never to see those belts and carts moving as I stood in one place poking and poking,
Envisioning the belts flying out the door, a continuous path to follow, a private road through the land
For a bicycle and rider escaping the life, the factory, the cubical office confined to one place.