At night, I hear cars passing over the flyover. I wonder where people are going so late. I ask myself if my interest in container technologies is a compensation for my own relative deficiency in the container department. Upon waking, I salute the flyover along with the rising sun. It never rests. Its automated systems ensure a 24-hour facilitating environment to meet the demands of our metropolis: escorting hasty men to and from the other side, each striving to surmount that which is unsound in them. Similar to mothers, who nurture and provide for their infants. I can tell the structure is worn down. Rust and other imperfections have quietly settled onto its membrane. Perhaps, being porous enables intimacy with its surroundings.

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