Fogged mirrors and stained glass, the color is red and you set off into the night. The rain is there but you cannot feel it; Only the artificial heat of the metallic vents pours out and hits your face billowing the smoke of your cigarette in complete disorder. The oppression of the rain’s tactility only amplifies its sound with every single noise of every single miniscule atom of water hitting the windshield multiplied to make a massive cacophonous symphony of watery instruments playing in harmony with the foggy darkness of the night.
It just so happens that on this night at one o’ clock in the morning the exact total mass of exhaust spewed from your tail pipe is, in some way of conversation, a direct reflection of your physical exhaustion. You do not come to this conclusion for in fact you are too tired, although you feel the sense of mysterious smoky irony that you could not pin down, but you knew it was there.
The muffled sounds of your wheels through your windows are so loud that it is beyond the point of not being able to think and has dipped into the point of thinking too much. The bumps in the road offer a couple times of a non sequential absence of thought, but besides that the vibrations from the motor are not helping any either. The constant oscillation of the fabric around the sun visor that was containing a bloodied post card sent to me by persons unknown with instructions to places unknown was on the verge shifting its way free from the loose grasp of the car’s ceiling and its sun visor.
I am thankful that the only two people in the car were me and the guy I had killed one hour earlier. I am also thankful that he can’t see that there is a dead guy in my car because he is dead, so I am thankful that the guy is too dead to see that I am dead. Its funny that I killed him and I am the one who feels dead.