Busy Work

Her Geo is bare bones and has blown speakers. The tapes of sad bastard music sound angry and howling

We have all night and a full tank of gas and nowhere to be found. But escape is impossible, moving is just busy work.

Sad bastards are demons, and these laments are apocalyptic in truthful distortion. I place my hand on hers, as she rests it on the gear shift.

The false can’t be escaped. The Milky Way is seen from Andromeda but not Knoxville. We run and run and run, just to keep busy.

We are not found. Everyone sees us. Sex is the trap that damns us to invisibility. Seeing but not touching the light.

Parked at an all night gas station, eating ice cream sandwiches purchased within. Cold and sweet is soothing. Winter calms the rage. Paranoia stays.

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