𝐈 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄

Bubblegum pop plays on the radio. It’s a nice contrast to the screaming behind you. 

They tell you not to drink and drive, but that’s not realistic. 

With your head in a car engine, it’s easier to pretend you don’t hear ambient conversations, louder than average, always talking, making deals, fucking people over. You’re blissfully oblivious.

There’s a nice red glow on your hands. Is it the stop light? It’s hard to tell.

It’s a game of give and take; things go well, then it all goes wrong.

People come and go, they shine and fade. It’s a shame some of them go out with so much blood.

People flick past the car windows like frames in a zoetrope. Each of them live their individual lives, have their own connections, their own upbringings. None of them understand anyone else.

Neon signs, palm trees, lemonade lime. Drugs, low-lifes, night-owls, crime.

You exist just outside the view of society, two steps to the right of the headlights of the law, standing in shadow.

Hold your keys in your fist like spikes protruding from your fingers. Don’t let them near you.

She was different.

Pull your driving gloves on, and sail into the night.

There’s blood on your shoes.

Just drive. Don’t stop. Don’t stop the car until you’re lost, and you’re not looking at the same stars.

Time means nothing; work, work, work.

You make the coffee stronger and stronger, but it seems to do less and less.

Aren’t you supposed to feel something when people die? Maybe, once upon a time, you did.