Everything flows. The mountains, sun, rain, and clouds all flow easily, moving at a pace that is just above noticeable. Accurately, in a quiet, oscillating rhythm. In slow motion. In the midst of all of it, the motorcycle rolls instinctively, dancing with the air to the beat of the wind, caressing the mountain through the pavement, buzzing like a small insect flying in the hive of nature. All attempts are gone. No thought is needed. The motorcycle runs by itself and the roads unfold and gradually reveal the way. We flow effortlessly through all of it, in sync with the random movement of the clouds, the arbitrary gusts of wind, and the slower but certain movement of the earth. There is no destination, no route, and no origin. All I do is let go and let the motorcycle flow naturally in the spaghetti of objects, particles, and energy that is the world. It is all in me.