1.5.00

The car is a tin can on stout wheels. Small, tight, and light, it'll chase its tail within a two lane road. Bare of all inessentials, just the can and the stick and the wheels oppress acceleration, but only a little. Driving a car like that ceases to be about speed, becoming only a matter of ratio. One to two to three to four to 202 to 76 to downtown and free parking at the museum. Shifting effortlessly, like slicing through pudding. There's a bell with tassel hanging from the rear view mirror that D bought in Beijing. It sways in silence except to let you know when you've exceeded a safe degree of lift, at which point it'll ding at you to cut it out. I take the 202 to the Devon exit to the little road that intersects 30. A little road that turns through dips and rises -- I lack the language to describe this terrain. Is it hill and dale? No; those but in miniature and compressed. Pavement has been merely splashed over the contours of the land, and we drive where it petrified, miraculously sparing colonial houses, pastures, churches and cemeteries. We bruise the path with our hasty tread, threatening to demolish all life who dare cross it and even those oncoming. I, fused with this little sepulcher of aluminum, am smaller than you and more quick and agile. I find my way between the throughways, around the lame and the apprehensive. If only I could walk with such efficiency! There are only 6 preset buttons with which to vary noise through the speakers, and fewer actual frequencies worth the listening out here in the DCZ and beyond. One hundred to Exton Bypass to 30 heading west until Lancaster, until dark. This part of the world has not bothered to discover reflectors, and the way merges with the night. The vessels must pave their own conical roads of light: chasing dark ends. Myopia is no deterrent, and all the cars race to find each their own triangle to fill. Enforcers seem not to exist; none are spied anyway. With such right as is implied, we abandon wreck-less.

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