A soot-filled smoke trail dappled the highway as a final flourish of ink as one does at the end of document of great legal weight or the emptiness of emotional capability at the final sentence of a suicide note. Pine trees split the lanes, creating cracks, for which the sunlight took full advantage. His rays burst forth as the car lapped over the crest of another hill. The powerful morning light reaved the restless driver of the damp, cold morning air. The air smelled of wildflowers and manure; occasionally, the breeze carried a scent of an evergreen, a fruitless attempt to cleanse the driver of his folly. Burnt cannabis intermixed upon contact with droplets of spilt Jameson, weaving through the man’s garments like some spectral seamstress.
An empty flask vibrated beneath the passenger-seat; it had found a sweet spot to wedge itself, impossible to remove without pulling over—An option the driver considered little of, for he was already late. The aluminum shell of the flask rattled a drunken tune, which was fine enough for the traveler at the moment. The radio’s raspy audio paired well with the subwoofer in the trunk. The man held his hand against the door, reveling in the thunderous tremors that shook the car’s old frame to-and-fro. His other hand departed the steering wheel to touch a salt-stricken paper, covered in ugly ink scribbles. The car wobbled incessantly without care for the flask’s symbolic contribution.
A sign for a turn came in view, then left from view. The driver hesitated for a moment, before releasing the note, and skirting around a turn at the end of the decline. Celebrations attracted the desperate and unkempt. One life was never enough for the prideful.
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