He is in transit. When moving, when still. He biked along the palm-rimmed beachside drive and listened to thoughts lifting off in every direction like planes directed by a lunatic controller and meandering through sky-line thought-paths of "no coconuts fall from these palms, or dates, not with the fit jump-roping blonde beside the picnic table." He biked past and sat. Advil does not halt the throbbing wayward flyers, and if he knew it could he'd give it to the gutter. Stopping thoughts in mid-transit would only drown the passengers in the mid-Atlantic, and stab Marsyas before he could be flayed.