I stand upon the cobbled walk
 as scooters whiz on by,
and think this world 's too fast for me,
 and tilt my face to sky.

But there's a contrail gash up there
 made by a hurtling sky-tube
that jets its way to who knows where -
 while I'm the slack-jawed rube.

To match the world to my breath's pace,
 and watch the blur lines form,
and hear each note of music played...
 We'd sync to my waveform.