I spent a lot a time on the road – when I wasn't sleep-walking into disaster. It was a handy way of being at work and avoiding work. I crossed a motorway bridge, saw the six lanes that I would soon be joining laid out below me. Some effect of the sun and rain on the road's surface made the scene strangely vivid, extra-dimensional. I crossed the bridge like a child looking into the pages of a pop-up book. The natural, child's response is to probe the picture with a finger, run it around the edges of the shapes that made the scene. Maybe even tear it. My mind was working in much the same way. I wanted to rip the day and make my own mark on it. Greenish clouds were melded to the sky to make a sort of tunnel. Jazz piano played on the radio, the soundtrack to my own personal video being played through the car windows. Suggestion of movement in the green corridor of trees. A liquid motion from a buzzard with breath-taking wingspan. The music took me into the greenish tunnel that led my thoughts into a darkened room penetrated by moonlight.