I am riding home. The same armadillo I saw two days before was still on the side of the street, lying dead. Flies were still devouring the muddy meat. I wait for the light. My windows are always wide open. I don’t like when my hair covers part of my glasses, but I love the wind blowing in my face. I had one earphone on, and automaticaly turned the mp3 player off when the smell invaded the car. I made the turn the same way I always do, stepping the accelerator to get to the comfortable 40 mph in the least amount of time. I already know the timing of all the lights, and although I should be able to go through all of them without stopping untill I’m home, as it is noon, I’ll have to use my breaks. The sun is perfectly warm. I long for this familiar, known path. I long for the same things I see everyday and the novelties that show up. I feel home when I’m going. Around me, from behind tinted windows, a red-haired girl is doing her make-up, an old guy is slowly talking to his grandson, a couple is fighting, and a teen is talking on the cell phone with tears in his eyes. None of them would notice the armadillo. Or the sun. Or the wind. Yet, I look at them, my ephemeral neighbors, and truly enjoy their unconscious company. I only wish I could tell them about the poor animal. And the sun. And the wind.

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