Bare before and after the Free Way with the shiny black topping and runaway lights that never run out. Just me and the saddest song connected by a flimsy cord. Palm resting on the source of it in the seat beside. I can feel the rhythm of the spinning disc, as if it were the lifebeat of my child or my lover. The drug of choice supercedes auditory reality, replacing it with hallucinations orchestrated by the fingers of fantastical melodies, soothing chords, or homicidal riffs. But I can still hear troupes of rain tap dancing on the windshield, the view imperfected by melted feet. The beams illuminate obstructive clouds that roll evasively in the wake of my passage. I just want to punch through, working for the plane and the limits of tenacity. Pushing in and in to the very center. Pass into and through me complete: I want to feel the membranes puncture and re-enclose, just the thinnest slice of you left behind.