Death drives a seafoam green station wagon and thinks about life.

I am so bored with driving a car in a single direction.

There is always a car and there is always a highway.
Absolutes are disruptive and drudgery at its most heightened state of awareness. Still, I drive because I don’t know how to stop.

I roll down the windows and let your steam roll out the window lazily and gradually. You are clouds when you turn into steam, you are clouds of the dead.

But literally, you are dead and you are a cloud.

I’m not lost, I’m just constant. I go like a runner or a jet stream. A jest.
Nobody pours over me like books or waterfalls. Nobody looks in the reflections of reflective surfaces to try to find me. I go, I go, like bones in the garden.

Death is an item like perfume. It sits on your skin and it wafts away in layers,
notes of scent. Its residue will always be there but its presence will be undetected by the nose, the organ that is made for sensing its presence.

Death is a pretense.
Death is not a pretense.

Come sit in my car and I’ll drive you around in my automobile until you flash boil, until you waft out
like a scentless fog. I will have forgotten who you are by the time you have left the window open.
Bring yourself to me and we will forget your problems together. Wander out onto
the highway
and we will crash softly into one another like two storm fronts or onions.

Jesus and John Wayne will twang away on a ukulele and sing folk tunes and hymns in turns.

Goodbye goodbye. Go under the earth.
Goodbye goodbye. Go out the window like a house fire.