12

   A row of streetlights stretches out as they whizz past my sight, the edges of the windscreen framing this sight into a tunnel all too familiar, all too repetitive. I have no motivation to look at it anymore and my eyes gently close. I am back, in a forest clearing and I stand before a sculpture of me, they eyes, the face… Still, like foul water, a rotten, infectious apathy is all I can make out in them. I shift my weight and I feel the weight and shape of a pickaxe in my hand and my body swings into action. A motion so familiar and dreaded now infused with actual passion as shard fly, a few rip my cheeks but over the clanging, laughing and the smell and taste of my blood I lose myself in this moment, this destruction. I open my eyes, the streetlights stretching out as they whizz past, 25 more miles to go. A few more weeks, but I will see this deadened form broken. I can feel the passion that will end it like the dust on my skin.