Ritual of Morning
There's a tangle of spray paint on the asphalt. Different colors; pink for this car, yellow for the truck. Red and blue and green. Lots of colors. The dashed lines describe velocities, trajectories, the paths they took through metal and broken glass as things went wrong. Badly wrong. Someone left their house yesterday and didn't come back. They did their morning things, their rituals. They got in the car and they took the same road they always take. They went to work. They never got there, and now there's this arcane diagram on the road trying to describe why.
I drive over it, over the lines that tell a story of a life ending in mundane and violent ways, and I continue on to work. Another day. One more day. Every day.