Long, long stretches of road whose kilometres are whiled away in the blink of an eye, 

afternoon turning to evening with no perceived passing of time 

Measured only by conclusions reached through conversations, 

the kind of quiet murmurs that will exist nowhere but within four metal doors 

and a dust covered windscreen.

The latest perfume on sale is petrol and gum leaves, with base notes of campfire smoke and a hint of sweat, 

and to the uncouth youth it smells infinitely better than Chanel no. 5!

‘Eau De Road-trip’. 

It perfectly compliments greasy hair hidden under caps, the less chic version of 

acne hidden under concealer – worn boots on worn pedals while the day is worn away into the night 

and an artwork creates itself in a notebook of thoughts,

to be written, discarded, and written again a thousand times in one's mind.

The highway of hurtling death machines paints its own macabre art onto canvas — life littered on the bitumen, its poignant message lost 

on the Oblivious Modern Art Enthusiasts.

Headlights on the road highlight a whole world invisible outside of the High Beams.

o.e.l

02/08/2023