It speeds you about, hither and yon. It is movement. It is freedom. Driving a winding highway is like dance. A car is not merely transport, it transports you.
Stuff just sits there.
Placid, stolid stuff wants to set down roots, to stand still. I'd last seen the locker, with all its slumbering stuff, six months earlier, at the end of a brief travelling intermission visiting family and friends during the Christmas holidays. After packing away my didjeridu, computer and a couple other items of varying utility, I stepped back and looked at the literal bulk of my material value. The irony of the trade-off between disk space and living space didn't strike me until just a moment ago, just before deciding how to write Pat's response. He bent down, straightened and, gauntlet in hand, lightly tapped my cheek.