"My back is hunched, traps tightening around my neck. My knuckles are tight, white to the point you could see through my hands. I am bogged down beyond any motion in any direction. The stress builds up between each vertebrae; each ounce pushing the one before it is close to snapping. I am ready to snap crackle and pop. And then it goes. Traffic floods forward like blood from a jugular. At a rapid, desperate pace. It rushes forth with its various cargoes. I am in the midst of all this elegant violence standing on an island of steel. Not really even an island - more like a sliver."

I always get a little sentimental when reading prose of that caliber. You are such a good writer [165]!