“I can’t read you”.
I’m leaning on my car, you’re sitting out of yours. The question was only who’s car to take, but I suppose that holds meaning, too. Why would you want to read me? I think; you don’t read much, anyways. I’m not a picture book, I’m no good to look at. I’m not a magazine with white smiles or current stories, I carry no gossip. I’m a dusty old story barely holding my spine together, of course you can’t read me.
“That’s okay,” I say, “we can take my car”.











