You could look into the sprawling skies above and try and pick out the curvature, mark the place where the atmosphere bent to the will of the space. It was an impactful reminder of our relative impermanence.
But every bit as drastic were the miles of roadway laid out in the city of Los Angeles, where our bodies and machinery plied an impression filled with choco pie crusts and perfect disorder.
All the stereos on the 405 collected into a giant swirl of sound as the world switched to night, the faded countenance of need collected in malt liquor and prescription medication and weed.
The other day I laid on a wall and looked up to the moon and there was just me, and that moon in that moment, a billion of other people, but it was just the two of us. Me and that moon were going places.