Tire treads kiss black tar road. His shoulders churn with each gap in the pavement. A ten-thousand yard stare tunnel-visioned by rolling golden hills. There is a destination ahead. Attention is forced away from faded yellow and white lines. The back of his hand. A speck of ash. Fallen snow. He senses movement beside him. Recalling a look three months old. Like Telephone. It is different now in the mind’s eye from what it was in its time: left behind. The farce of destiny. Will the perhaps inauthentic mien not be forgotten? His blueprint has forever changed from its origin. On the face of his fate a crazed and frightened look of absolute truth. The chill of endless winter renders ribs frost-covered tree limbs. Unbroken and untouchable. A tidal voice ebbs into existence. It limps into his head helplessly. Crippled. Each uttered tone transforms itself into his entire world. Low it beckons as frail as the future. He answers in the only way he knows: an imitation born of disappointing, heartbreaking youth. Be aware of borrowed time, he asks of no one. The sun above is a locked-out child arriving home from school. Not now. Foam like spit in the shallows of the sea forms its retort. Waves of words are stuttered upon the shore. Fate believes it has spoken sincere. Ah, but if it were so, would he is still be traveling on this darkening country road? Speech is a temporal wind. He can beg for it to remain, but it will never consent to stay. He can ask for time to understand, but it will not grant him one second more. He can keep his eyes trained ahead at what is coming down the road, but it will not permit him to escape damnation.
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