NYC. Lockup. The mean streets are empty, desolate, probably safer than they’ve ever been. A lone cyclist cruises through the spartan pedestrians and random taxis, who are they picking up, where are they taking them? His payload, bags of probably-not-medicinal but possibly essential ganja. His customers are happy to see him. This is an essential worker. These are essential needs.

At the same time on the other side of the world, a lone cyclist sneaks his way to downtown Wellington, for the same purpose, yet on the receiving end. The lockup and the stripping of his humanity, his freedoms, has left him uncertain, anxious, depressed. The weed is deemed medicinal, although he knows full well that it’s not helping, just masking. A hole is dug that takes a great deal of climbing to exit. Finally, he peers over the edge, across the flat ground and pulls himself clear. He re-mounts his bicycle, and rides towards the only freedom he has left, the smoke dissipating into the dirty air. Clarity is essential.