Nestled in the nexus of vectors

I sit in a sofa suspended above the street and contemplate the vectors of motion surrounding me. 

I'm in a sofa, yes, and stationary, but all around me I see movement. The sofa stands on a stretch of carpet that looks like the result of an explosion at a paint factory, and the carpet covers the floor of a walkway stretching above Fourth Street to connect the two towers of the Galt House. I'm facing roughly east(ish) while a steady stream of AP readers and others walk or saunter or limp or scuttle east or west, some stopping to sit or chat or belly up to the bar across the way.

Below me traffic moves north and south, and up above I see in the Galt House windows reflections of clouds looking like the sails of tall ships blowing past.  Sometimes a rising elevator slices through the sails.

To my left a group of fuzzy pastel pocket quail flutter about without any apparent awareness of traffic patterns or prevailing winds. They sit and roost or swirl and spiral, ensconced within their own little world.

I came here seeking isolation, a perverse desire considering that I sit at the nexus of so many vectors of motion, but the random human chatter and movement create a bubble of white noise I find oddly soothing. Today I read 325 essays, a feat that left me bereft of all sense. Last night my rooommate and I drove south to hike in a research forest,  stretching our muscles and resting our eyes on woods and water and swooping purple martins,  but today I begged off any more activity. Instead, I sit ensconced in my bubble and consider the quail.