Twenty-four hours
A boy sits behind the wheel of a small automobile. He stares at the road in front of him, keeping steady, one mile below the limit. No other lights penetrate the darkness, neither ahead of him nor behind. His car has not passed another for a long while.
Suddenly (for the quietness and immobility of the given situation), he presses a button on the dash, and the catchy pop-rock CD is ejected from the player. He carefully slides it into his binder, and replaces it (in the player) with a collection of Mendelssohn's violin sonatas.
He drives onwards, still alone, through countless minutes on a road devoid of time. He approaches a section of straight highway. Slowly, carefully, and with perfect lucidity, he rests his head against the centre of the steering wheel. With as much considered precision, he depresses the gas pedal to the floor.
Seconds, minutes pass. The car impacts an obstacle. The inflating airbag snaps the boy's neck.
Suddenly (for the quietness and immobility of the given situation), he presses a button on the dash, and the catchy pop-rock CD is ejected from the player. He carefully slides it into his binder, and replaces it (in the player) with a collection of Mendelssohn's violin sonatas.
He drives onwards, still alone, through countless minutes on a road devoid of time. He approaches a section of straight highway. Slowly, carefully, and with perfect lucidity, he rests his head against the centre of the steering wheel. With as much considered precision, he depresses the gas pedal to the floor.
Seconds, minutes pass. The car impacts an obstacle. The inflating airbag snaps the boy's neck.