Roundabout the shortcut, curves close enough to the freeway
adding shape and symmetry to the beauty of industrial lines.
Now driving through the local neighborhood, it’s a dark night punctuated by equidistant globes of light.
The short distance becomes lost in the moments’ conversation, one man and his imaginary god talking out loud to justify, to work out moral crises, at least the ones of the moment. Tomorrow they will be different, crises and gods alike. The car’s engine, background noise, plays softly against the conversation almost like a choir repeating the man’s words in angelic tongues. The car’s exhaust acts as the heavenly incense lifting prayers to imaginary heights.