Today's my birthday. I'm 33. I can't figure it out. I'm still in the back seat. If you're not driving though, you get a better view. As the driver you gotta watch the road and keep from crashing. Blinders on. Ever notice that? Child like flashbacks in the backseat, the road and it's flashing by at mach 1.9347325, and the dancing shadow on the concrete and tree scattered banks, all the same, keeping up, the shadow of a car on the interstate, with a window, and you, waving in a setting sun, trusting the parent who drives to get you there. Used to sleep on the back dash of the Monte Carlo. Dad's silver machine. Red felt velvety seats. I got hypnotised by the rhythm of the road and watched the milky way paint itself on the glass regardless of the gone rattling highway. My breath spread itself out on the night like a cloud and then swallowed itself up. Part of me is still there now. That's why I can't be all me here now, not anymore, not without total memory renunciation, or value on the memory, something, gotta let it go. Got a lot of stuff I can't let go of to keep me there instead of here, remembering like a drug.
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