It doesn't feel like it would be possible, but it's raining.

Cars go past in bubbles, thin tabs of white and yellow coming one way, red going the other. In the distance, just visible between sodden, evenly-planted trees, the red lights gather briefly, like a temporary barricade, paused at a junction, then sputter onwards to be replaced by others.

There are a range of sounds here - the air conditioning, the fan, the music on the wireless speaker, the passing of wheels in the rain, the rain itself. At times it all combines, or I will it to combine, into something that sounds vaguely like deep breathing, or the breathing of a being that's like us in some ways, but larger, more gentle, a bit docile, or perhaps softly drugged.

Just like the rain, the cars keep regenerating. If I were to sit here long enough, some of them would surely repeat. Even the raindrops, if given enough time, could eventually reappear; the same water, just in a recycled form, impossible to catch each time it comes around.