Description:

I want to ride your bicycle, I want to ride your... bye....

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I - WOW - H

In my lines of work PPE was usually not part of it. Blue collar work, mostly, but dressed in white. Dirty hands, clean skin. Clean sheets. Soiled laundry.
There's no gear that shields you from drawers. Paper cuts are easily traded for the ability to type. 

Please close your seat-belt, sir. Madam. Thank you - we care for your safety - you paid good money. For that, too. It's included. For our own safeties. Thank you very much.
We promise we won't bleep - we're not your car. We can't afford to. There's probably laws against it.
And laws for it, maybe there'll be soon; let's hope for the best.

Traffic is a bitch, the inner the city, the more that's the case. Taxi in, bus out - it's not much better that your car - but you won't have to remember where your car is. 
Was at. Before you left it. Maybe parked. 
Exhaust fumes, too exhausting. Made you exhausted. It's exhausting. You climatised yourselves, instead. 
There's always an escape. There has to be. It's not my fault. I can't be. I wasn't me. 
The me was left behind. I never learnt - that or anything - they teach us not to. 

We electrified our bikes, because we couldn't afford it cars. Different businesses. Different opportunities. As long as it's faster. 
And if it let's us connect. With blue eyes and teeth. Hooray. 
The wheels were re-invented, in a way. There're still spokes. Ready to be thrown into another's wheels. That will always work.

Pedestrian streets are filled with people and their cars - all trying to get ahead. And in between - they're often faster than rest - at least in the short run. Anyways.
They're those that think they're ahead - not those that think ahead. Might be, that's there's no ahead. There's only a head, and it can hurt. 

It's called personal protective equipment, idiots. Custom designed. Not for you. No one cares what you do with it. No one gives a fuck. 
You'll walk away, from all of this, not being handed the bum of rodent. You oughtn't be so discouraged, though.
And, for crying out loud - don't take it so personal. 

Maybe it's like with the tree, if he doesn't exist, he won't fall - but if you do, you'll make all the noise. Phantom pain is still pain.
Real or imagined - as long as it's perception, it's moulded and refined - there's no questions. And no two ways about it - that'd be too much. 

There's only too much of a bad thing. Not of a good thing. Only too little, and/or too late. Or the feeling, there's not ever quite enough. 

In the end, it's easier to not care at all - and knowing, if something happens - it's gonna be their fault. It's meant to be. 
'cos, why me? Why always me? Why not them? It's their fault anyways... Ah well... 

Why do we fall, Bruce? So we learn to blame others... Oh, wait, no we don't... yet...