Each day, the M11 stretches endlessly, a gray ribbon flanked by fleeting fields, trees and briidges. My car rumbles onwards steadily, a cocoon against the world. Tail lights pulse like a heartbeat pushing against the clogged arterys of this country. Monotony reigns—mile after mile, the same exits, the same passing cars, the same destination. Every day.
The journey blurs, a highway hypnosis toward another workday.

Between 2007 and 2010 I joined the daily commute. 45-60 minutes each way.