Painting by numbers.
When ever I'm on the highway I think of crashing. I think of crashing in a purely speculative manner, the same way people think of how they'd most like to die. I wounder what it would be like to be sideswiped by a car, to be plastered against my seat as the car spun through three lanes of traffic, finally impacting against a metal guardrail, where we'd then be hit by some idiot illegally passing in the breakdown lane. The limp seat belt hanging to my side would not save me as I flew through the windshield, luckily suffering only a minor concussion and superficial lacerations from the glass, but then having my abdomen torn open by the mangled hood. I woundered what my last thoughts would be as I lay on the ground. The pounding in my head harmonizing with the doppler whoosh of passing cars, Choking on the dust they raised. I doubt I would think anything, I'd be too busy coughing.