It was a pastel morning. Cornflower blue clouds looked liked distant mountain ranges, the sun highlighting their sky crevices with the palest of yellow-rose.
Just then, and as the queue of traffic I was in merged onto an off ramp, a woman in a blue Mustang almost clipped my back bumper trying to cut in line and speed around me. I gunned it and didn’t let her have the satisfaction.
“Bitch,” I snarled.
Transcendence, it seems, only lasts so long.