I pull down the overhead mirror  and watch as my hair melts around my head like some auburn waterfall. Rocky turns to me and asks “you feel anything yet?”. 
  “I think so.” I reply.
  The sun is glancing off the erect formation of rocks and I can hear it singing its sweet goodnight. I’m pretty sure we’re parked but the world is rushing towards us like some Guitar Hero fretboard.
  “Baby, don’t worry,” Rocky says, his hand on the handbrake, thumbing the button, pressing, depressing, pressing, depressed.
  “I’m not,” I say, “I wasn’t,” I correct. Thanks a bunch I think. The car is hot, heated from the suns final rays, the leather sticky against my bare arms. I look down and I seem to go on forever, my feet a million miles away, estranged relatives of my legs.
  “Do you feel that,” Rocky asks, taking a great breath. I do the same.
  “I do.”
  How could I not?


~ by Joseph Blame on May 2, 2011.

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