(no subject)
My shoes are what first put me in the mood to drive. They're nothing but a black and white pair of ratty chucks, and yet they catalyze this desire in me...
One glance at the clock confirms my suspicion. twelve-thirty ay-em, I say. The words swirl and coalesce in my mind: empty roads warded by solitary streetlights and above that, an empty universe warded by boundless moonshine.
The five bucks of gas that I put into the truck's half-full gas tank are long since gone. But I'm going to put on my shoes, with their soles so thin that I can feel that steel pedal shift, click and moan under my foot, and I'm going to drive tonight away.
Seeking? nah. Found? not quite. I exist chiefly in the realm where the protagonist dons his leather jacket in a dimly lit and smokey room, where the antagonist cackles subtely to himself in a high backed chair and where the damsel kicks the henchman square in the nads.
Picture if you had six cigarettes to smoke for the rest of your life. You would try to make them relevant. Smoke after you lose your virginity, smoke when you graduate college, smoke when you teach an old dog new tricks. But you'd second guess your decisions: should I have smoked at the birth of my daughter? In the end the cigarettes would be relegated to some desk drawer and uncertainty would reign, they're there, to be taken advantage of and appreciated, but when and how? (Heavy handed metaphor much?)
If I had my way, I'd smoke my six cigarettes on my death bed and be content with my memories and cigarettes.
One glance at the clock confirms my suspicion. twelve-thirty ay-em, I say. The words swirl and coalesce in my mind: empty roads warded by solitary streetlights and above that, an empty universe warded by boundless moonshine.
The five bucks of gas that I put into the truck's half-full gas tank are long since gone. But I'm going to put on my shoes, with their soles so thin that I can feel that steel pedal shift, click and moan under my foot, and I'm going to drive tonight away.
Seeking? nah. Found? not quite. I exist chiefly in the realm where the protagonist dons his leather jacket in a dimly lit and smokey room, where the antagonist cackles subtely to himself in a high backed chair and where the damsel kicks the henchman square in the nads.
Picture if you had six cigarettes to smoke for the rest of your life. You would try to make them relevant. Smoke after you lose your virginity, smoke when you graduate college, smoke when you teach an old dog new tricks. But you'd second guess your decisions: should I have smoked at the birth of my daughter? In the end the cigarettes would be relegated to some desk drawer and uncertainty would reign, they're there, to be taken advantage of and appreciated, but when and how? (Heavy handed metaphor much?)
If I had my way, I'd smoke my six cigarettes on my death bed and be content with my memories and cigarettes.