Boxed Thoughts
It was easy to pretend the slickness of the steering wheel was from the desert air forcing back frozen flakes just outside. The smell of nerves was muted by the aroma of Old Spice and talc yet belied by the crinkle of printed paper. The characters formed words, the words sentances, the sentances directions, the directions a forked path to the thoughts and feelings scrolled across phosphorescent glass -- the remote embodiment of a soul bound in flesh and blood. Dare I look into that soul through windows reportedly green-grey? Each circular motion of rubbered wheels leads to intersections of red yellow green illumination. Deep base thumping runs out of time with the bass of the radio and shutters slowly fade the world to black that a long moment it takes. There is the push into first gear and a little gas not to stall out. Once again the wheels propell forward.

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