i wanna see a thousand punks unite with filthy gutter drunks

[potboiler]

i used to have a car. it was a kind of faded red, not laquered over with the look of newness, or lustrous in its deep hue. it was a mid-nineties chevy cavalier. the upholstery was a faded grey, ass-grooves worn in. the cassette deck was primative and perfect. i did a lot of driving with the driver side roll-window down, smoking, blasting the stereo. driving makes sense in the sprawl. makes sense when you yourself are remote or need to go to a remote place. driving is a way of folding space, connecting manifold points. i do not know which of my decisions came first; i desired to stop being in remote places; i desired to stop being from a remote place; i desired to stop connecting these vectors myself, and through eschewing this luxury, save myself money. were these desires already extant beforehand, or were they precipitated by the crash? or was the crash precipitated by the desire? i rear-ended an upper-middle-class couple's suv, bruising it with the blunt force of my car being destroyed. the averse conditions of the night were numerous. i was smoking while driving. i was manipulating my tape deck while driving. it was raining. it was dark. someone made an illegal u-turn ahead, jostling traffic to a stop. my mid-nineties chevy cavalier, on the rain-slicked blue-black sheen of pavement, did not come to a stop as cavalierly as younger, more spry, better-manned vehicles.

i used to have a car. i did a lot of driving with the driver's side window rolled down. smoking. cajoling the tape deck into providing a soundtrack.

miller says that the more you drive, the less intelligent you are. but then again, miller can't drive. cars, anyway.

aside: right-brain people invent forms. left-brain people exploit them.