"We screech and errrr and ahhhh fuck as I'm stabilizing the wheel. Our car jumps an erupted fissure into air over broken asphalt, we're captured in blue and black ink; our faces cartoonish, our eyes terrified, but our mouths are grinning. Briefly the car is 30 years old without electronic automation; we crash back down, roll down the windows with eager lunacy. Your arms are flail; now you're leaning out. Daring the horizon to hit your fist held back, waiting to piston. One of mine is banging, a thumping clack on the outside of the door while the other is rigidly firm steering."
"We reach the fire and laugh, screaming. Not primal, we're too modernly, carelessly oblivious. Not dreaming. No laughing, just conflagration. Burning."
"Hurricane, no thunder, no rain. Single second cyclical wind, violent bashing against car doors. Our voices are riotous, extreme energy of political apathy. We want the world to end because 'we don't give a fuck' repeated in low monotone, many deep voices from out throats. Outside the car: polverized, reformed flattened cement, girders, melted construction. And still something of us keeps going. Not after images, not part of the soul of our passing. Just something we don't get to find out."