My Dad driving us through the rain-splattered night, discussing culture and literature to the radio’s insistent slow-drumming beat is about as good as it gets.
I like to run at night and watch the lamp posts blur into go faster stripes, urging me onwards.
The smell and tension of rain yet to fall on parched concrete brings cities back to nature and heads back to senses.
Falling asleep on a train is the biggest thrill a commuter can possibly take: on awaking you could literally be ANYWHERE (on that line).
Emotive writing is both weak and superficial. All else is mundane.