Based on the feeling I got on a Sunday evening going for a drive while dreading work the next day. I feel better about it these days.

You should stand on the beach and listen to the sea often. It makes it all easier. I've only just realized this tonight. Sunday is a beautifully hopeless night. It serves to delay the inevitable. It's a con. Stark contrast to what you know is to come.

Driving is my warm whisky. A gentle speed in straight lines, dark-rumbling roads beneath the wheels.
How did centuries of travelers get on without the comfort of all these green lights? One that tells me I'm warm because the heater is on. One shows me that the hazard lights are off so everything must be fine. How did they manage without the light that tells you all the lights are on?

I like the people in the cars behind and in front. I love the way they hide their faces behind those low beam lights. They know better than to show themselves. I probably wouldn't like them if I knew them too well. It's a better relationship this way. Still complicated. They've got gaps I have to fill.


You've got to wonder
why I haven't come across
the jazz station before.
It's always been there.

I gaze at the street girls on each corner with the curiosity of a kid.
They step forward enthusiastically.
A male in his thirties alone in his car traveling over sedately.
I fit the profile.
I'm the target audience.
They'd have more chance of selling me a vacuum cleaner, one that makes the earth move.
I wonder if in thousands
of years people will ask of our times
"How did they live like that?" I wonder if conditions
will seem harsh to them, our outlook glib, our lives futile, just the way we see the cavemen? Of
course
they
bloody
will!