Clear. Pure. Not tainted in any way. A purpose to be served. Driving into light on I-95. Northbound to New York. Traveling from Philadelphia. Leaving her behind. Time to be alone. Solitude. Finding peace in Manhattan. This is what mad men go in search of. To be with one’s self. Tranquility among masses of people. Herds cross streets. Eighth Avenue, Broadway, 32nd Street, up by Lincoln Center, Central Park, Columbus Circle, street vendors selling halal meats, hot dogs in dirty water, swarms of busy bees going in all directions. It is too much. Maybe not enough. Soon, the voices will stop. Soon.