Another day, rush hour rushes through your veins. Makes your blood boil. Inch by painful inch, not one thing that has met your throbbing stare remains uncursed. You are desperately late.

Running late, always running late: the austere eye of a traffic light pierces through the moist graphite six fifteen am atmosphere, streaking everything in its gaze in sunset vibes. There’s nothing poetic about it. Only the hands on your watch have been moving for the past five minutes.

Six, actually. The traffic light goes amber… green — AND LITERALLY THREE SEDONDS LATER — amber… red. The driver at the top has missed the cue. Your breakfast sizzles in gastrointestinal fluids.

Once upon a time, you wouldn’t have considered smoking in the car. Once upon a time, you didn’t loathe this car.

Naturally, you can’t find the lighter. You step out of the car and check the boot. You find the lighter: it’s sitting next to the Molotov cocktail you’d carefully prepared only yesterday night, after another long night spent sitting in a queue facing the opposite direction. You’d nearly forgotten, but now an idea reassembles in the back of your mind. A smile spreads across your face. A sense of peace rushes through your veins as your hands tingle in anticipation: the only possible answer reveals itself to you.