I am large, I contain multitudes; when I am 15-over I actualize a need to be seen as Battinson, a small man in a large car, going fast and trending faster, losing and winning a war of wills, even of worlds, between my annual safe-driving reimbursement and the asphalt-as-therapist, a large expression in a small motion, another inch of the heel. I imagine I could be well-practiced and more assertive in stating my emotions and honoring that truth, and through tight corners, over open freeways, I could manage that pressure; there is a citizen of our favorite New-York-as-a-comic-book-city that has witnessed, hundreds of times, the dark steel of an unbelievable marriage of vengeance and speed circling a proving ground at death-defying pace. This is no light work, occasionally meditative, kissing corners and downshifting as if the soul of a city could depend on it. In time, you will prove yourself right. Those moments mattered, then and now, and once again shall be called upon to weave through traffic in a road-borne private jet.