Behind the wheel. The road is a hiss and hum somewhere under you, moving fast enough to scrape you clean. Your hands move the machine to and fro, here and there. If you wanted to, you could roll the fucker. Sometimes you can’t tell if you want to or not. But you don’t do it, because it simply isn’t done. Too much of that and the entire system would fracture, and who knows what would fall through the cracks.
The windshield wipers swipe and splat, pushing life this way and that, left, then down. You peer through the glass, the wet streets made luminescent by the streetlights that delimit your progress. Some asshole passes you illegally and attracts the attention of a cop. You smile. There is an intricate web of social conventions and customs and myth about all of it.
And the roads themselves? Just another web, spun first in the minds of the purposeful and then rendered so cunningly from the very bowels of the earth itself. It is upon the bones of the ancients that we cover ground.
Journeys large and small. Movement. The chore of navigation and the watchful solitude of the pilot. Hands and feet. Eyes on the road. Understand that you are weaving a blanket made of cultural destiny. It smells like suffocation, breathes like tomorrow, stings like splendour, covers the earth and sky. Snuggle it.