The car is as lonely as my thoughts, a dark streak through the edge of the city, through the raw edge of my fear. The road is more empty than I expect, more empty than I am, more empty than I think. I drive. I drive and lose myself in the motion, in the distance, in the blur of it all. The bag is at my side, and I pretend it is a comfort. I pretend it is. But I am not. I reach the outskirts, the outskirts of the city, the outskirts of my life, and I know. I know.
The leather of the wheel is smooth and worn beneath my grip, beneath my hands, beneath my heart. The lights of the city fade and blur, and I fade and blur with them, fade like the sharp and jagged edge of my thoughts, the sharp and jagged edge of the fear, the sharp and jagged edge of the road, the road.
I drive.
The quiet is
