The belly, ah yes, that's where the world connects with a larger version of itself, an umbulacrum of reciprocating discourse squeezed through a tube building block upon Bach into a huge urban scrawl of malignant tissue.
Four corners meet here at one of the numerous centers, an open faced square inside a town square near the heart of a city.
"Cars are only themselves," he said, "and and we are never really in one, navigating our way across a simple stitch in an incomprehensible suture."
I smiled, toussled his hair, and pedaled us both across the intersection of here and somewhere else.