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Bruxing at the brake lights; the upcoming, on-coming, unforgiving, unstoppable stopping. But at least it gives people with nothing to say something to talk about and I know, I know, I get it a lot: yer so jaded fer so young! except they don't use jaded, they use some derogatory Crackerese equivalent, like bitch or democrat. It just seems like I'm always the kind that can't say no and they are always the kind that can't shut the fuck, you know the rest, how it goes, how it ends, with you dragging my polite ass out to the car while I'm talking over my shoulder and wishing them the best resolution to whatever epic fucking saga they thought it necessary to assault me with, not quite Cops and not quite Cheaters, usually, but somewhere in between, like abandoned canines and stomach flus and octogenarian junkies. Its not that I'm misanthropic, exactly, I just miss the clean air that I never got to breathe and I long for the waaaay out of the way privacy found only in points outside the interminable row crops of privacy fences; medium density housing, if euphemism helps you sleep better. But as I sat in the passenger seat with the Times folded neatly in my lap and my carmel macchiato warming my hands, I said that I wasn't sure that I could be happier, and I meant it. That said, I wouldn't complain about rooms with a view nor the sweet smell of a new baby and I would give you anything for which you asked, including, but not limited to, all of it, all night, tonight and any night. Yes, picture, to take the attention off. Sometimes, don't feel like communicating in complete. Lucky for me, for you. And vice verse, uh.

Come away with me.