5:55 AM on the drive to your house all landscape is dark locked and washed in cobalt. Some horizonal glow seems to burst suddenly- smearing out in vague reaches, finding weaknesses in the cloud cover. It makes the sky look ragged and torn. Like something emerging- under tension. At this point of the morning, change happens between blinks. A reminder there's no point of focus yet. My eye draws meaning from an imagined vector. The moon falling, the sun rising, the stars receding. This is a dance- belief without knowing for certain that next minutes will hold moments and moments follow each other. Or even confidence of the next moment's existence before it arrives; presence, not prescience, measured by memory and expectation only, and it is surprisingly stressful. GPS says 20 minutes to your door. My attention shifts from the radio, to my coffee, to early texts from my family; strange that they are waking at this hour. I check the sky, stars are slowly drowning in the rising tide of yellow and orange. There's a message that I want to send, 'I might be late.' The keyboard would fight me every finger tap so, instead, I share my location with two clicks on the dashboard and I become trackable- a part of a greater existential metric. It's really quite remarkably idiosyncratically selfish that we should know these things with certainty. Like sunrise schedules, or the reasons people wake early, or why things are not as they are when we left them behind.