Morning.

He is alone. The morning air is cool and thick with fog.

He is alone. His machine is hoisted upon his shoulder. The soles of his shoes softly click the stairs as he descends. He is alone and the air is cool.

He inspects the the road before him as he tucks his only possessions into the back pocket of his jersey.
One foot is clipped in.










As he gazes down the road, he pauses for a brief moment of introspection, as he is alone and the air is cool.

In a moment, he is off.



He exhales deeply as the air sweeps across his skin an he feels the muscles in his legs awaken to the morning.


He is alone.


But by no means lonely. He has not gone out to think but rather not to think.
His sanctuary rolls beneath his wheels and is felt on the skin of the pavement.

He is an artist. This is merely the sketch pad. Yet, he would not trade this paper and pencil for the grandeur of any painting.








As he returns, he will politely oblige those who inquire upon his morning ride. But they will never understand how it truly was for him.


For he was alone and the air was cool.