Anyway, I just wanted all of you to know we haven't left you completely. Here, have some Virginia Woolf. This is a passage From a Room of One's Own and like all of Woolf, it's brilliant and layered and means more than you first think.
At this moment, as so often happens in London, there was a complete lull and suspension of traffic. Nothing came down the street; nobody passed. A single leaf detached itself from the plane tree at the end of the street, and in that pause and suspension fell. Somehow it was like a signal falling, a signal pointing to a force in things which one had overlooked. It seemed to point to a river, which flowed past, invisibly, round the corner, down the street, and took people and eddied them along, as the stream at Oxbridge had taken the undergraduate in his boat and the dead leaves. Now it was bringing from one side of the street to the other diagonally, a girl in patent leather boots, and then a young man in a maroon overcoat; it was also bringing a taxi-cab. And it brought all three together at a point directly beneath my window; where the taxi stopped; and the girl and the young man stopped; and they go into the taxi; and then the cab glided off as if it were swept on by the current elsewhere.
What does this mean to you? One of the things I love about Woolf is that there is always this overtone of natural inevitability, but later she comes back to shove it out of the way with her precise characters. Sometimes I feel life is like that, too. We are carried away by the current of events swirling around us until we stop and realize we can tell that cab driver to stop and we can get out. Or we can keep riding.