There isn’t an honest moment in all 96 minutes of Traffik.
Editor's note: This is a continuation of a story Roger was working on when he passed away. This ending is one of many we received. To read Roger's beginning to the story, from the end of which each entry picks up the thread, go here. Illustration by Krishna Bala Shenoi. This is one of four endings we're posting this week. Vote on this week's endings here.
Dawn Oshiro writes:
But even Mozart was a failed Mozart once, Mason thought to himself. Even though he was composing at the age of five, the experts agreed those pieces were shit and it was only when he was in his thirties that the masterpieces arose. Even genius takes time. The time to evolve and evolve, and, as Claire put it, "get in the groove." Mason leaned back and contemplated his friends, their laughter and banter fading into white noise. He unwound the eons in his mind, seeing the skin on his friends' faces, the muscles beneath them, the bones and the blood and the atoms that swam in them. He pictured the molecules that made up the first cell. Did they ever imagine that they would become all of this: five friends in a Campustown bar, talking of Titan? And what could they become, if given the time?
"Mason? Hey, Mason." Regan gave his arm a playful poke. "What are you doing?"
He looked up and smiled. "Thinking," he said.
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