Traffic

They look down upon the myriad boxes, rolling along on feet made from rubber from their lofty perches, with curious detachment. Aware that with a tiny flicker of their coquettish eyes, they can cause brakes to squeal like pigs being slaughtered. At their command, internal combustion engines hunch together - heaving, purring and clutching at each other, like participants in a depraved Roman orgy. On their whims, they send commuters running helter-skelter like insects scurrying in search of food.

They look at the mangled pieces of metal and the shards of glass that were once vehicles, but now lie like lovers spent, having just consummated their togetherness.

Like little children revelling in mischief, they wink in merriment.

And the chaos goes on.