February the Nineteenth. Opus and the Daily Practice. Vehicle.

I am a young man in his first car driving fast on endless horizons a wet beach mirror with no surf in any direction forever. I shift. I am driving all night because I am in love. The road feels too small beneath my tires. I can go anywhere in minutes. I shift and I am returned with nothing inside but smoke and mirrors and poison vial swishing back and forth on a pendulum, puffing cigarette smoke, and Bob Dylan songs. I shift out of the turn and trace the curves of Mulholland. Lombard Street. Portland’s arteries are clogged with cars. Shift and I am gray. In the hand-me-down, I am fast enough to outrun this insoluble fear that all of my days are only a dwindling number that ticks down.  I shift and I am gone. FDM.