#59

Click-click. Click-click. Click-click. Battered and rusting vehicle removes itself from the rushing torrent of speed. The driver's eyelids droop, weighted by a sleepless night on a bare mattress laid haphazardly on a hardwood floor. By a night marred at the hand of a gut incensed and eager to spill bile. He blinks, and the effort to open his eyelids anew is great. His car stops, engine clicking. He reclines, eyes closed, bathing in the stillness. Basking in the negative space where ceaseless radio grated his nerves. When a dream begins to swim into his mind, his eyes snap open. Not yet. Not now. His hand finds the door handle and crisp air rushes in. Standing, stretching, breathing deep, he listens to the low hum of vehicle and pavement. Endless, indefatigable migration. A short walk courses his muddy blood, raises goosebumps on his flesh. He walks past a sign that says "free coffee" and settles back into his car. She starts with a furor, eager to get back on the road.