Motion. Lovely. An eclectic-aesthetic is the bouncing buoy glimpsed fleetingly on the way down, around & up to back down again. Urges the sloth to hunt, beckoning but briefly & only in response to an independent wink of inkling. Great cities & wee villages rose & fell away behind without much of a fresh breath bar one or two mints. No such suckers, check all angles - we have work to do if the level reads true. There's the ambassador from Donabate along for the ride & with a firm grip, the reins are commandeered through a 5 hour stint to belt headlong into the fall of heavens; great gusts buffet & tease the remnants of rubber on front tyres, tongues flick the cracks for decay & slide in to soak feets & foam. Seats swapped & some fresh eyes are set solid on invisible horizons - we're fed on a vague motion-toward, some general forward direction at high speed, plaque is ground fine betwixt an aching platoon of once-white molars. Miracles? No miracles. Determination & fear. Lust & promise. Hope &/or oblivion. We made a pass at the continent's most easterly protrusion. Peace & grace, little steps. For a series of cojoined fleeting fragments of moments, life was that of a phantom limb; rejoicing in the self-acceptance of it's detachment. It made that remaining miles homeward hum, dispersing silently unnoticed in the trailing slipstream.