A motorcycle tangled with a car and a van on Interstate 85 in suburban Atlanta. Someone in the van died.
Traffic was stopped for a while. But not too long. Soon enough, everything was back up and running, like nothing had happened at all.
As metaphors go, it's not subtle.
We are the central character of our drama, the star of a show we can't stop watching. But the world little notices or cares. We die. The traffic keeps on running.
I'm being morbid. I wasn't always. It was the death of my parents, I think. I never gave much thought to funeral processions until I was in one. You want them to be important. Politely, people make way. And then they go about their business, reminding you that in the great scheme, not a one of us matters.