Motionless at 80 mph on this path of distractions the dotted line is relentless in its consistency, stretching out, seemingly forever, until the water has its way. In the mean time the clouds inhale fumes and eavesdrop on the rising hushed tones of rubber on pavement, and the occasional splash of metal against metal. The trees wait in the margins for the destiny of their ancestors who once stood here, whispering signs of expansion as the garbage in the gutters gets closer and closer, until one day they put up a cement wall and paint trees on it. What the fuck?
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