Similar in kind, degree, form, substance, habitat, shape, color, size, sensitive and mobile powers, yet with the power of reason, yet angered by his own incompetence, the bus driver misses the stop. A rider calls out—Please stop!—I want to get off! The driver swings the bus to the curb and yanks open the door, throws his gum at the garbage can, fidgets, jerks his head right and left, starts suddenly, taps his foot on the gas pedal nervously, switches lanes without signalling, plainly upset. Instinct is a pattern of behavior, driven from the unconscious, intermingled with other motives. The bus driver is earning his living. He breathes, blinks, swallows, rubs his eyes. He wants to get this over with. The traffic is, if we could attribute animal qualities to a rushing crowd of machines, vicious.